


Of Hound Dogs and Wildcats

by Maryassassina, Reinette_de_la_Saintonge



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dreams, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Friendship, Game of Cat and Mouse ( or rather: Cat and Dog ), Historical Inaccuracy, Intimate play, Mind Games, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Prostitution, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-06-15 05:09:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15405663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maryassassina/pseuds/Maryassassina, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reinette_de_la_Saintonge/pseuds/Reinette_de_la_Saintonge
Summary: Set in S4 before the Battle of Yorktown, premising Simcoe has not been wounded at the Battle of Blandfort: Simcoe captures a woman disguised as a rebel soldier and keeps her for reasons only he knows.





	1. Belly of the Beast

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote this quite a while ago, inspired by a book I read then and a random scene in TURN S4 when the British captured a bunch of rebel soldiers after the battle of Blandfort. It is not very good, let alone historically accurate, but I still hope you enjoy!

_Yorktown, Virginia, September 1781_

 

The moment the tall man in forest- green walks towards us and I hear him exchange brief words with the guard on duty in this curious high-pitched sing -song voice of his, I know my fate is sealed.

I am standing in line with my fellow comrades, one of the few - _so very few_ \- who have survived the battle with a superior enemy, and are now prisoners of the British army.

The officer paces off our line, pathetic local militia that we are in our sordid rags that could not stand in starker contrast to his own impeccable uniform.

Not that I could see it, for I keep my head deep down, as do they others. All I can see are black boots, large and shiny, as he walks along our row so leisurely as if he had all the time in the world. But I don't need to look up to know exactly who he is. Lt Colonel John Graves Simcoe, dreaded commander of the ill -famed mercenary force called the Queen's Rangers.

I cannot guess what a man like him might even want from us. Information, or just a random victim to take his anger out on him.

Whatever it is, I certainly don't want to find out. I try to shrivel in my clothes, to hide my dirty face under the lowered brim of my hat.

 _I am invisible. I am no one_. No one of importance at all.

Truth be told, none of us is. We're nothing but simple, local boys, the town's last resort, a bunch of greenhorns with scrapped, old rifles that don't get off half the time and hardly ever hit their target if they do. No wonder, we didn't stand a chance.

 

The colonel stops his pace in front of me as I somehow knew he would. He looks down on me and then, very slowly,brings his black- gloved hand to my chin and holds my head up to him. I try not to breathe.

"Look at me," he demands, but very softly, and I obey, my heart pounding, my knees threatening to give in under me. His eyes widen and he parts his lips slightly before he turns them into a subtle smile.

I am not invisible. _Worse_ , I am not even a boy. My poor disguise was never meant to withstand an observant eye like his.

He nods. "Come," I hear him say, almost politely, and then I feel myself gently, yet determinedly pulled out of the row and shoved forwards. No one dares to object, not the guard, even less my comrades, who are secretly breathing in relief that it's me, not them.

He guides me across the camp,the barrel of his musket pressed to my back, his hand firmly on my shoulder, the only thing that keeps me on my feet.

He stops at one of the larger tents and talks to the man standing in front of it, another Ranger, one of his inferiors. "I'm going to interrogate a prisoner and do not wish to be disturbed." The man nods, either used to such orders or just not fool enough to question them. Probably both.

 

The flap of the tent closes behind us and drowns out the noise of the camp around it. Simcoe leans his musket against the tent's wall and takes a step towards me, without ungirting his sword.

I believe to know what's going to happen next and likewise, that I'm ready for it- I've had enough time to consider the possibility that this might happen, since I had made my decision.

But of course I'm not ready for it. You never are.

There are countless horror stories going around about the Queen's Rangers, even here in this backwater place in the south- from the terror they spread on the battlefield, the plundering and raping of women on their way, to their commander's sick obsession with catching spies and traitors and his unorthodox as well as brutal interrogation methods. If there is one man in the British army every continental soldier prays to never cross paths with, it is Simcoe.

And now I am right here, in the belly of the beast.

 

"So," he says in a light, conversational tone. "Is the continental army so desperate now to even sign on women?"

I don't bother to reply to that. Truth is, the continental army is desperate enough not to ask volunteers many questions. The army surgeons ask for your age and when you say eighteen, they believe it, even if the boy in front of them is visibly not a day older than twelve, and as long as you can hold a rifle, they declare you fit for war.

Simcoe takes another step closer to me, slips off his right glove and holds his hand to my face. I try not to flinch when the tip of his forefinger brushes over the bruise at my right temple, before he grasps the brim of my hat and yanks it off my head to reveal my hair. Dirty, unkempt and awkwardly cut off at shoulder length as it is- the moment, it falls down on my shoulders I know it is visibly the hair of a woman, as is the face it frames.

Simcoe, who seems to think the same, shakes his head in disbelief.""Why, they must be blind as bats," he states. "For who would mistake you for a man?"

"A woman can fire a musket as well as any man," I hear my own words before I can stop myself.

He frowns. "I suppose so," he replies, but he is clearly disgusted by the idea. "Although I can't believe a father would give his consent to send his daughter to a battlefield- or a husband his wife, for that matter."

"I don't have a husband," I say and regret it at the same moment. If there had been a slight chance to stop him from raping me when he thought I was married, I had thrown it away now. But then, considering his reputation, it would hardly have made a difference. And any way, now it is too late to take the words back.

"Nor a father, "I go on. "Not any more. I had a brother, until he got killed on the field and my parents died soon after with grief of losing their only son. And since there's no one else left, it was on me to keep up the fight."

I'm not telling him this in hope for compassion, of course not. I say it to arouse the anger in me, the hatred. Because anger and hatred are better than fear.

"I understand," he says softly and lowers his hand to my shoulder. "But you should sit down. You're trembling."

When he says it, I realize that he's right and I sink to the chair. He walks around me to the table and fills a cup with a red liquid.

"Drink." he demands and I obey. The wine is stronger than any I have ever tasted- not that I would have had much wine before, except in church on Sundays. My unit- if you can even call it that- was happy to have cheap ale for a drink, if anything. It fills my empty stomach with a sudden warmth and goes almost immediately to my head and makes me dizzy.

Still standing behind me, he lowers his hand to the filthy shirt in my back beneath my waistcoat. I gulp the drink and hold my breath.

Now it will happen. A million frantic thoughts rush to my head, one more absurd than the next. If I could be quick enough to reach behind me and pull his sword from the sheath before he can stop me. If it would hurt so terribly as my cousin Anne, two years older than me and freshly married, had confided to me in a bashful, conspiratorial whisper. How much more so, in a forced, violent act? Worse even, Simcoe is practically a giant, six-foot-three ore more, which certainly bodes ill concerning specific parts of his anatomy.

His hand alone feels frightfully large on my shoulder. And very warm. When his fingers brush along the neckline of my shirt I can't suppress a stifled sob.

"Your shoulder is bruised," he notes blandly. "Let me take a look at it." "It is nothing," I manage to say under my breath and it really isn't. Just the handle of a redcoat's musket smashed roughly into my back at my capture. My whole body tenses with the need to flinch, but I don't dare move, unconsciously sensing that the slightest sign of fear or retreat would prompt the beast to attack.

Even so, he notices my anguish. He pulls his hand away and steps around the chair to look me in the face. "Oh _please,_ " he snorts, if amused or angry, I couldn't tell. "You don't think, it is that what I want, do you? Trust me, if it was, there is a place where I can get it, and from most willing and far more- alluring ladies."

He turns around, grabs his musket and walks out of the tent, leaving me behind in utter confusion and tormenting uncertainty.

 

Minutes pass that feel like hours. I stay frozen in my chair, feeling numb and lightheaded, both from the shock and the wine. I can still feel his fingers on my bare shoulder, gingerly sweeping my bruised skin. What if he really only tried to be kind? No, not this man. Every nerve in my body twitches in the urge to run, but I can't, I know the Ranger is still guarding the tent's door. And how far would I come in a camp full of redcoats?

Time seems to stand still or go on forever. Simcoe doesn't come back.

Tired and exhausted as I am, but too strained and nervous to doze off, I can't stay sitting in my chair any longer. I pace off the tent, very quietly, inspect random objects scattered about the table. Anything to distract my mind from what might happen next. There is not much of interest to find, if he has any letters or other strategic documents, they will certainly be in the bag he carries with him. He left his canteen, though, and when I lift it up to pull me another drink, I notice it has been lying on a small sheet of paper, a hastily drawn map- a river, a town, this town, troop stations, naval bases- the sound of heavy boots from outside the tent gives me a start before I can even grasp what I had just seen.

In a flash, I drop the paper and cover it with the canteen, before I rush back to my chair, my heart pounding.

 

Simcoe re-enters the tent, a plate in his hand, filled with buns, cheese, cold meat and even something that looks and smells like apple pie. Evidently, the British army eats much better than the continentals, or at least, their officers do.

"You must be hungry," he says and holds the plate out to me with an encouraging smile.

Of course I am hungry. Since I buried my parents, I cannot remember a day, when I haven't been hungry, even less when I last had meat. I reach for the plate and clutch it tightly with one hand while I'm eating, in case he might make up his mind and take it away from me.

He sits on the camp bed and starts to clean his musket, gazing up from time to time to watch me gulp down the food almost without chewing, the faint smile still lingering on his pale features and when I'm done, he gets up and pours me another cup of wine to wash it down.

 

A bold thought, a faint hope is beginning to rise up inside of me.

Perhaps, I was wrong. Perhaps, beneath all the steel and warpaint, and despite all the terrifying tales about his cruelty and ruthlessness, was there still the gentleman, bred to help a damsel in distress no matter the situation? It wouldn't be completely absurd- in a pack, soldiers were hardly more than unleashed beasts, heinous, ravaging monsters who would kill and rape and rampage without a qualm, but alone, they could effortlessly return to a state of acquired politeness and sentiments of honour and compassion towards a lady. A doubtful theory considering the reputation of the man before me, certainly, but then- here I am, still alive and untouched, and now even well fed with the best meal I've had in weeks.

"Thank you," I mumble under my breath and put the empty plate down before I take the cup from his hand and a deep draught for liquid courage. "What are you going to do with me?" I ask him softly.

He looks down on me, inclining his head with that rich, auburn mane as if he were yet to decide about it. "I don't know," he says at last, after a long, tormenting pause. "Any suggestions?"

Was he mocking me? I can't tell. But be that as it may, if I want to chance my luck, the moment is now.

"Colonel Simcoe," I start, looking up to him, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. If only he wasn't quite so tall. It is not easy to talk to someone who is towering in front of you like a mountain. "I see you are a gentleman," The words come in a breathless rush. "And I am nothing but a minnow, not worth the catch. I know nothing of importance concerning the continental army, having been in the local militia for mere weeks- and only because I was desperate and had nowhere else to go. It was foolish, I realize that now. If you could just let me go, just -throw me back into the water- it would be a good deed, an act of- mercy. I may not deserve it but I would be grateful all the same-"

He lowers his head even more, searching my gaze with his, as if he was trying to look inside me and find out if my plea was worth the consideration. The stare of his glacial blue eyes is absolutely unreadable and makes me feel like I was covered all over with fleas, itching and tugging at every part of my skin. But then- I may as well be. Then his gaze suddenly leaves mine and he turns away to pour himself a cup of wine.

"I can't," he says flatly and takes a sip. "I left you in my tent for- an hour, at the least? Time enough to rifle through my things and catch a glimpse on strategic informations you would certainly pass over to the enemy-"

"But I haven't! And I... I wouldn't!" I jump to my feet, almost overturning the chair behind me. "I can't even read-"

"No?" he turns around to me and presents the shoulder bag he had brought with him without me noticing. "I believe, this is yours," he says coolly, before he opens it and fetches a bundle of crinkled sheets of paper. I sink back into my chair, defeated.

 

" _My dearest David_ ," he starts to read in his high- pitched voice. " _I am glad to tell you, that today I have finally carved the first notch in the butt of my rifle. My unit has been scouting the lobsters' camp for days and last night, when it was my turn on night watch, I saw that redcoat steal away from the camp and head towards the woods and our hiding place. I don't know what he was up to- a secret rendesvouz or some other kind of human need- and I didn't waste a second thought on it either. When my gun went off, I heard a cry and saw him fall down, but I didn't have the time to go and see if I'd hit him, because we had to make haste and change positions, in case someone might have heard the shot. I just hope he was no deserter-_ "

Simcoe stops and puts the letter down to give me a sneer. "Quite the killer, aren't you?" he says, amused. "Shooting some poor guard post who was most likely just about to relieve himself?"

He chuckles. "Well, I've seen that rifle. And I'd guess he just started at the sound of the shot and stumbled over a root."

I glare at him. He holds the letter back up to his eyes and continues to read. " _At any rate, he was my number one and now it is only twenty more notches to add until my vendetta is done. Twenty- one lobsters for each year you lived, until they killed you. It is clear, they are preparing for battle and that means, more chances for me to fulfil the promise I made at your grave, my dearest, my only brother_."

"Twenty-one." Simcoe muses, frowning. "Do you really think, you would be able to kill twenty trained soldiers? With a rifle like that? I doubt that would be possible even if you had them stand in line before you at arms length-"

I drop my gaze, my cheeks burning hot with hatred and embarassment at his evident amusement.

"Well," he says cheerfully, grabs his musket and puts it back together, before he reaches out and hands it to me, handle first. "I'd say, officers count double.Try this one. Hard to miss a target in close-quarter combat."

I look up to him. The temptation to take the gun and shoot him right in the head to wipe that smug, arrogant smile from his face is overwhelming. But we both know I won't do it.

"If I killed you I'd still have only three because I would be dead the second I fire this gun," I say wearily.

He shrugs, puts the musket aside and goes back to the letter. " _May the Lord watch over me and guide my arm,"_ he reads. _"I pray, I won't die before I can fulfil my oath, but the enemy is superior, both in experience and numbers. And should I fall, I will feel no regret, for I know I'll be together again with you, David, and mom and dad, and in a better place. I wish I could say I wasn't afraid, but I am,and very much so. I miss you more than I could ever say. Love, Cat."_

Simcoe puts the letter down. "Cat? he asks. "Is that your name? It certainly suits you, if I may say that."

I feel new colour crawl up my cheeks. "It's Catherine," I murmur.

The nickname came naturally, considering my looks- I have always been rather petite- and slender, and my eyes are of a terrible green and slanted like a cat's. "Of course," he replies in a strange tone. He makes a step towards me and takes my chin in his hand to make me look at him.

" _Are_ you a cat, Cat?" he asks curiously. " Cats are fascinating creatures, to be sure," he murmurs. "Treacherous things, one might say. Not like dogs. You can domesticate them and fatten them up but they will never be completely tame, always stay wild at heart. Unpredictable. They can writhe on your lap and purr at one moment and scratch your face at the next. Cats purr, when they are wounded- to ease the pain,did you know? Maybe you should try it."

He has lowered his voice to a whisper and the sound of it makes me as uncomfortable as the things he says. However, the wine and the anger in my blood make me reckless. "If I am a cat," I hear myself say. "What are you? A hound dog?" I watch his face, the ugly scar where his left ear has been and wonder what kind of cat had done this to him. And if it was _still alive._

 

He bores his gaze into mine and nods. "Some have called me that," he replies thoughtfully. "And worse. So the question is- where do I hide a rebel wildcat in a camp of war dogs?" He sucks in his lower lip, then he smiles.

"Best amongst other cats, I should think."


	2. Alley Cats

It is already dark when he leads me out of the tent, my tell-tale hair stuffed back under my hat and a hooded cape above it, for further safety.

Not that _safety_ was exactly what I felt about my captor, but then, I have hardly a choice but to follow him wherever he plans to take me. At least, Simcoe's threatening, tall figure next to me prevents any passers-by from more than casual glances at me- even among his allies, no one seems to be keen to draw his attention by staring too long.

Where he is guiding me quickly becomes clear, because I can hear the laughter and the lewd remarks of the men long before I dare to look up to see the messy line of coloured tents at the outskirt area of the camp, and the dolled-up women in front of them, eagerly waiting for their nightly customers.

Where the Continental army drags a rat tail of camp followers with them, mostly their soldiers' wives, the whores follow the British army, because that's where the money is.

Other than his fellow soldiers, the harlots seem to have no reservations to approach the Colonel, as they welcome him with their wooing, cooing voices, all smiles and alluring looks, stroking insinuatingly along his arms and the lapels of his uniform. Evidently, he is a constant visitor here, and officers certainly mean better pay.

He makes his way through them, ignoring their unambigious offers with a small, polite smile on his lips, and heads purposefully towards a particular tent at the end of the row.

The woman standing in front of it, a pretty mulatta about five years older than me in a low-cut pink dress, throws herself into a pose at his approach, with her hands on her hips.

"Lord Simcoe," she greets him in a mocking tone.

He gives her a slight bow. "Lady Lola."

They share a brief, intimate smile. "Care to see my castle?" the woman with the strange name ( not her Christian name I bet ) says and cocks her head towards her tent.

"I do."

He pushes me forward and inside, before he carefully closes the flaps behind us.

Lady Lola raises an eyebrow. "You brought a friend?"

"Not quite." He accepts the glass she offers him and takes a sip, before he sets it down at the table and tears the hood off my head, along with my hat.

Lady Lola's eyebrow slides a bit higher. "And what's that?" she asks curiously. "Spoils of war?"

Simcoe throws me a sideglance, his pale blue eyes sparkling. "More of a stray cat I dragged up on my way." he says in an amused tone and I feel my face flush hot with anger and embarassment.

"Well," the harlot says, seemingly imperturbed. "I take it, you want her to- join in the fun, then?"

Simcoe emits a derisive snort. "Heavens, no." he says, to my utter relief. "What do you think of me? Look at her. But I'm afraid I have to ask you a favour."

"A favour?" Lola repeats, her eyebrows raised in question.

"A favour I intend to pay for, of course," he clarifies dryly and produces a small purse from his uniform jacket's pocket."I need a place for her to stay. A _hiding place_."

The dark-skinned woman looks me over and chews her lower lip, thinking. "For how long?" she asks.

The question seems to take Simcoe by surprise. "I don't know," he says at last, in a low tone that gives me shivers. "As long as it takes-"

Lady Lola shrugs her shoulders. "Well, she can have Millie's tent- for a while that is- since she's run off with that peddler's boy who promised to marry her- silly girl, he will chase her off soon enough when he's had enough for free of what he should have paid for- I told her, she'll be back before end of month but she's new, you know, and still wet behind the ears-"

Simcoe gives her an absent smile, visibly not interested in Millie's fate.

"She'll need a bath and something to wear," he continues. "Something other than- _this_. Nothing too - showy, though. I don't want her to be seen and mistaken for- that is, in fact I don't want her to be seen _at all._ Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Lola replies in an ironic tone. "Whatever you say-"

He looks at her and a small grin creeps up the corners of his mouth. "But there's time enough for that tomorrow," he says. "For now- she just needs rest, I think."

"Does she have a name, too?" Lola inquires.

"Yes she _has_ a name," I can't hold myself back any longer. "And she can even talk!" It is unnerving enough to listen to some dubious strangers planning your future fate, but it is outright unbearable, when they do that over your head as if you weren't even present.

"Her name is Cat," Simcoe says to Lola. "A rather wild one, as you may have noticed. Beware of her claws and teeth."

"Won't she try to run away then?" she asks.

Simcoe watches me, an ominous smile on his pale features. "I shall hope not, for both of you" he says darkly. "I trust in you to keep her in check."

If that was meant as a threat, Lola is clearly unimpressed by it. "So am I to be a nanny now?" 

"I'm convinced, the task should be child's play for a woman of your abilities," Simcoe replies airily. "You have never given me reason to be disappointed thus far. And you're good with shackles, too, if I remember rightly-"

She laughs and holds up her hands in capitulation. "Alright. Come, Cat," she takes me by the arm and leads me outside and into the tent right next to hers.

Carelessly thrusting aside what must be the abandoned belongings of the romantically-minded Millie, she clears a bed for me, which has probably seen untold sinful acts, and gestures me to sit on it.

"Make yourself comfortable," she says jovially, and then, lowering her voice to a whisper. "You won't run, will you?" She looks me in the eyes, intently. "I wouldn't, if I was you."

She reaches out and briefly pats my arm, before she leaves the tent. "We'll talk tomorrow. Don't want to keep him waiting too long." She winks at me. "John' s not of the patient sort- and you never know what he's up to."

 

"So-"back in her own tent, Lola says slowly. "Am I to assume, that our-date is canceled for tonight then?"

"Of course not," Simcoe replies.

The tent's flaps are anything but thick and I can hear them loud and clear from my new, makeshift prison next door. The clinking of more coins changing hands. The rustling of clothes and their heavy going breathing. The whispers and giggles and finally, the creaking of the mattress when they sink onto the bed.

According to the sounds coming from Lola's tent, he must indeed pay her well. They must be well aware that I can hear their sighing and moaning but either they don't care or they have forgotten about me completely.

I should run right now, as long as they are too busy to notice, but I stay frozen in place, my limbs heavy as lead.

Where would I run? My unit has been captured, my home is a hundred miles far south. The Continental army is on their way here, or so rumours say, but I have no idea where exactly to find them. I know little enough about the area around Yorktown, having merely been sneaking across the woods, but I know it is enemy territory.

How far would I come, without company, and without any supplies?

How big the risk to fall into the hands of some brutalized ambushers, who wouldn't even bother to ask which side I were on when they saw a defenseless girl roaming the woods at night? I could as well write _Rape me_ on my forehead.

As it would most likely have happened to me here tonight, at gunpoint, by some drunk guard or two,in a dark corner of the prison camp.

And after that? In theory, they could just shoot us- rebel soldiers are considered traitors by order of the King himself and have no right to be even treated as prisoners of war.

However, in reality, captured soldiers get mostly stored away in prison camps, either here or in England, or on ill-famed prison ships such as the "Jersey", which in many cases is as good as a death sentence. And while officers have a good chance of decent treatment and prisoner's exchange, little fish like me and the boys of my unit are of no interest to anyone and usually left to rot in their respective prisons, helplessly exposed to deficient feeding and health care and violent treatment.

A fate, Simcoe had saved me from. But to what end?

 

Truth is, I need a better plan. Truth is also, I am bone-weary and the bed beneath me, although exhaling the indecent smell of powder, cheap perfume and the body liquids of its former users, is blissfully soft and I have not been sleeping on anything softer than my own coat on the forest ground for weeks.

Tomorrow, I think. I will make my escape tomorrow. I press the filthy pillow on my head to drown out the increasingly louder, frenzied groans next door and even before the wild excess reaches its crescendo, I am already fast asleep.


	3. A Lick and a Promise

"Well rested, princess?"

Lady Lola's voice tears me out of my sleep the next morning. It is a question I cannot exactly answer with a yes, if she even expects an answer- her sarcastic tone clearly indicates otherwise.

There are hazy scraps of a dream in my head, where I was chased through the woods by a pack of giant, gory hunting dogs. They encircled me at last and I saved myself on a tree, but the branches were brittle and broke away under my feet one by one, and I climbed higher and higher and the branches only became thinner- well, the kind of nightmare to be expected given the circumstances.

Judged by the faint light of dawn creeping through the tent's flap, it must still be very early and I cannot hold back a yawn.

"What, did you think you could sleep until noon?" Lola snorts. "Sorry to disappoint you. Early bird gets the worm. Same goes for breakfast here."

Truth be told, I had indeed expected women of her dubious business to sleep all day and at least have the decency not to start their dirty business before sunset, but obviously I was wrong.

Lola all but slams a small tray next to my bed, with a small piece of bread and cheese on it, and a cup of something that smells like cheap ale. "Bon appetit." she warbles on her way out.

Despite the nagging uncertainty of my future fate, I eat with good appetite- skulking through the woods with no other food than the little you can gather or steal on your way does this to you- and when I have just finished my meager meal, the tent's flaps open again to the sight of Lola who is dragging a small tin tub with her.

"Time for your bath, milady" she scoffs, sets the tub down in the middle of the tent, then leaves to return at least a dozen times with buckets filled with steaming water.

She fills the tub, then produces a small bottle with some heavy- smelling flowery liquid in it, which she empties to the half into the tub before she- with a quick, scrutinizing glance at me and a sigh- adds the rest as well.

"Hope, you can undress by yourself," she says dryly. "Or must I do that as well?"

Her unwarranted hostility towards me is beginning to get to my nerves."Believe me, I no more want a nanny than you want to be one!" I spit back with a saturnine look towards her.

The fake, mocking smile leaves Lola's face and it becomes momentarily serious. "I know," she says. "Why, some things can't be helped. But others do. Now get in there, as long as the water is still warm."

I step into the tub and she gathers my filthy clothes and sniffs at them. "No use washing those," she announces. "Best, I'll burn them. I don't care for lice in my tent, and I'm quite sure, Millie won't either when she's coming back."

"Do you really think she'll come back?" I ask her- unable to imagine anyone would voluntarily return to a life like this.

Lola takes a stool and seats herself on it behind me in my tub. "Dive under," she commands. "I told you, no lice."

I try not to flinch when she resolutely starts to wash my tousled hair and comb out the lice off it.

"As for Millie," she continues in a matter-of-fact tone. "She will be back soon enough, with a black eye or two. Men don't marry whores and if she wasn't such a ninny, she would be glad about that, too. Why give some village idiot for free what can just as well earn you a living and keep you independent? Stupid, I say. But she is young and has silly ideas. Some must learn it the hard way."

I don't know what to say to this and thus, stay silent. Bred in a decent, pious home like all my neighbours, it has never occured to me that the life as a whore could actually be considered worthwile. But then, I have never talked to one before, either.

There is an inconvenient, yet undeniable logic in Lola's words. Despite all the sweet, flowery talk about love in songs and novels and poems, reality in most cases tells a very different and way less romantic story. Even though my parents' marriage has always seemed to be a happy, if not exactly passionate, one to me, I know of other married women who are hardly more than household slaves and breeding mares to their husbands, true enough.

But even if married life isn't a bed of roses in most cases- and amittedly, I haven't been in a hurry to get married and witness that by myself- at least, it grants protection. And respect. Something a whore would _never_ have. Lola may consider herself independent, but she can hardly be happy with what she does.

"What?" Lola asks defensively, as if sensing my unspoken thoughts. "Do I shock you? I bet, you have never talked to someone like me before. Nor would you, if things were different. A little mudlark in men's clothes sniffs her goody-goody nose at me, huh? "

"But I didn't-ouch!" My objections turn into a stifled cry of pain when her hands tear at my hair, more rudely than necessary.

"Well," she says coolly. "At least, _I 'm_ good at what I'm doing. And I don't pretend to be what I'm _not_ \- unless I get paid for it, that is."

 

She gets up and dries her hands with a towel. "I'll get a dress for you," she announces, before she leaves the tent. "None of mine, I think" she ponders, with a last, taxing gaze at me in my tub." Sally should have your size, about, we don't call her beanpole for nothing-"

 

The dress she brings me a few minute later is a plain, threadbare cotton dress in a bleached blue tone. It is neither pretty nor does it fit, Sally the "beanpole" is evidently a good deal taller and thinner than me. It exposes more of my breasts than could be to my liking and there isn't even a shawl to do decency justice. The hem is long enough to triple over it with every step I take and I have no shoes, since Lola has burnt my boots along with the rest of my rags.

 

In that too long and too tight dress and without shoes, every thought of escape is outright ridiculous. Worse even, thanks to the lavish application of fragrance Lola poured into my bathing water, it wouldn't even take a hound dog like Simcoe to track me- I must smell ten miles up the wind like a whole flower shop.

 

Unlike me, Lola seems to be satisfied with the result of her efforts."Well," she murmurs softly, as if to herself. "Who would have thought-"

She reaches out and tugs a strand of my poorly cut hair back behind my ear. "Not much I can do about that hair- I could give you one of my caps but-"

"You don't care for lice, I know," I finish the sentence for her.

"Exactly." Lola walks around me and looks me over with a critical eye. "The colour is unusual, I'll give you that. Not red, but not blonde either. Could fetch you a steady customer or two. Some like the skinny sort-"

"I'm certainly not going to-" I gasp at her in disgust.

"Not _now_ , of course," Lola interrupts me, imperturbed. "We already _have_ a protector, don't we?"

She shrugs."Don't bank on it too much, that's all I'm saying. Men are like little children. They find pleasure in a toy one day and throw it away the next. And then there's the war. Even the greatest warrior can fall-"

"Lola," I take a deep breath and her hand to look at her intently. "I'm here _against_ my will, as you well know. I have no idea why Colonel Simcoe would- protect me-as you say, but I will definitely never-I could _never_ -"

I trail off, unable and unwilling to word the unspeakable.

"Never do what I do?" Lola suggests dryly, one of her dark eyebrows raised. "Indeed, you _couldn't_. But it's not as if you had much of a say in this, right? And he's not such a bad man as you might think," she goes on. "Better than most, in fact."

 

I shake my head, both unable to imagine John Graves Simcoe as a "good man" and frustrated because the harlot obviously fails to comprehend. "That's not the point," I say. "Even if he was- and from what I know I have all reason to assume otherwise- I could certainly never- "

"And why not?" she interrupts me with genuine curiosity. " Isn't the human body God's gift to us to delight in each other? Why not enjoy what is obviously made for this reason?"

 

Now, that's definitely not how our pastor would put it.

As for women and their female charms, which men seem unable to resist, they are considered to be more of a curse than a blessing- and quite rightfully so, considering it was the first temptress's deed which led to expulsion from the paradise in the first place.

And therefor, it is probably only fair that marital obligations are supposed to be endured rather than enjoyed by a dutiful wife, from the first painful encounter to the comparatively more painful act of birth, and then this in often annual succession until you're too old- provided you even live that long and don't die in childbirth before.

Not quite the definition of carnal pleasures when you think of it, and even if there is such a thing-

 

"Why, because," I hear myself stammer, embarassed to have to explain a self-evident truth- self-evident to a decent woman that is, not to a whore. "Because it wouldn't be right. It's- immoral. A _sin-_ "

 

"A sin, yes ?" Lola knits her brows and bores her stare into mine, suddenly very angry. "And what would _you_ know of sin, girl? I tell you what a sin is. _Hunger_ is a sin. Have your slaves work like dogs on your plantation until their backs break and then whip them half to death when they collapse, _that's_ a sin. Take one of them to your bed and make her a child and then ship her off to the colonies because your wife doesn't take it well- _that's_ a sin."

 

She stops to catch her breath and puts her hands on her hips. "And then, if you're lucky enough to survive the voyage, crouched in the hull with hundreds of fellow slaves, half starving and dying of thirst, wasting away in your own excretions- another plantation- cotton instead of sugar this time- and another master and the same circle of misery all over again. Every day, until the day you die. _That_ , Miss- touch-me-not, is a _sin._ Don't you _dare_ condemn me for having chosen a different life for myself."

 

"But-" I hold my hands up in a defensive gesture, likewise shocked at her fury and her revelations. Life as a slave is no cakewalk, I would have guessed that much, they certainly worked hard but we all did, and to be honest, I never really thought much about them. My father was the town's doctor and we had no slaves of our own, both because we were too poor and because father was a humanist and considered slavery against God's law, but the well-off landowners around of course had slaves and to me, the dark-skinned men and women on the fields were a common and omnipresent sight, part of our world but kind of not at the same time, existing in their own, vaguely mysterious sphere.

However, they were always friendly and respectful when you met them on the streets, and never appeared exactly unhappy to me- after all, didn't they sing all the time at work?

 

"But there must be other jobs?" I say. "For women, I mean. Not only the plantations or- or _this_."

"Oh yea," Lola replies in an acid tone. "I could have been lucky enough to wind up in the household of some genteel citizen. _Yes sir, of course sir, right away, sir_ \- no _thanks._ As soon as I got my freedom papers, and noticed where the power and the money is, I've been following my deliverers."

She shrugs again. "It's not always easy either, this life, I will admit that much. Most men are easy enough to please, but there are exceptions, of course. Some are cruel and like to hurt. Not _him_ ," she clarifies when she sees my frightened look.

"Or unwilling to pay." she goes on. "Or have the French disease. Professional risk, I guess. But I have learnt to defend myself and can put up a fight if I have to. And I have saved quite a bit of money by now and someday, when the war is over, I will buy myself my own little place. If the British win, that is," she adds with an unfriendly sideglance at me. "And I'm not going to be forced back into slavery again."

 

"And now I have to go," she finishes resolutely. "You may think, work time for a whore starts at dusk, but there's washing and mending to do for us as well as for any camp follower in your army. But at least, _we_ only have to wash and mend our own clothes ," she adds with a grim smile.

She is about to leave, but I grab her by the arm to hold her back. "I can help," I offer. "I can do laundry and mending as any other woman."

She chews her lower lips, thinking. "He said he doesn't want you to be seen," she says. "But I guess, that goes for other men, not for _us_ \- alright then," she sighs. "Can't expect you to just sit pretty for him in here all day, can he? Come, then. I could indeed use help."

 

During the day, the tent city at the outskirt of the camp belongs to its women.

I meet some of Lola's colleagues, among them said Sally, whom I politely thank for lending me her dress, and others, who, regarded by daylight and not yet tarted up for their nightly customers, look in fact not so different from ordinary women.

And just like them, they are busy with their inevitable chores, which I join in, grateful for having something to do to keep my mind distracted from the unsettling thought of Simcoe's next visit and whatever he might want from me.

Now and then, a redcoat off- duty approaches us, and then Lola quickly sends me away to my tent. Apparently, Simcoe is not her exclusive client.

 

However, listening to the sounds coming from her tent next door as I am forced to, I mean to notice that those other encounters neither last as long nor are quite as- _fervent_ \- as the one with Simcoe last night, but that's most likely only due to the fact that he is able to pay more than a simple foot soldier.

 

As it seems, in this world, everything and everyone has its price. I can't help wondering what mine will be- and if I will be willing to pay it when the time comes.


	4. Encircled

He comes with the nightfall.

Although I knew he would, I can't help but startle at his sight. I'm sitting in front of the tent with Lola and two of the other, momentarily unemployed, girls, still busy mending some undergarments,torn by some too eager customer.

When he sees me, his features tighten, before he grabs my arm and pulls me, quite roughly, up my feet and inside the tent. "What's she doing out there?" he hisses in the direction of Lola, who has followed us. "I _told_ you-" 

"You told me, she's not to be seen by another man and she hasn't been," she replies calmly. "But you can hardly expect the other girls to ignore the arrival of a newcomer-"

I see him grit his teeth. "I guess not." he says with a sigh. "Alright then. I'll come to you later. Await me."

"As I always do," Lola replies in her usual mocking tone, takes a slight bow and leaves the tent and me alone- with Simcoe.

 

He stands there for a moment, looking down at me, as if unsure of the next step. "Well," he says at last. "I take it, you- settled in then, Cat?"

I take a deep breath. "Yes, Colonel" I say with all the determination I can manage. "Thank you. And if you'd please- I would ask you to address me in a proper way. My name is Catherine Hickey and I am a decent woman."

He watches me with a small smile creeping up the corners of his mouth. He looks tired, I can't help but think. Whatever officers do out of battle, it seems to be equally exhausting.

" _Catherine Hickey,_ " he tests the sound of my name on his lips. " My mother's name was Katherine, too." he says softly."With a K not a C, though."

 _Was_ ? Surely,it can only be of advantage for me, if I remind Simcoe of his dead mother, even if I have little hope to look particularly "motherly" in my current state, emaciated as I am and with this haircut.

"No." he shakes his head, making my faint hopes crumble to dust. "You're nothing like her. I like Cat better. And given the circumstances of our- aquaintance, I don't think there's need for such formalties. But you're right, it wouldn't be right of me to have an advantage over you in that matter, so I suggest, you just call me John." he says airily.

I gulp. So much for that."I couldn't-"

"I'm afraid, I must insist," he says in fake remorse, his too wide, pale blue eyes fixating on mine. "I am respectfully called "Colonel" and "Sir" all day but that's not what I come here for. But fear not," he adds. "I'm not planning to take any more liberties with you than this- although I must admit you look a lot more appealing in a dress."

Well, certainly not in _this_ dress.

I haven't said it aloud, but my expression must have spoken volumes. Simcoe inspects me closer from head to the toes of my bare feet and a hesitant smile curls the corners of his mouth. "My apologies, I suppose you'd rather have a new one," he says eagerly.

"No, no, that's not-" "And shoes, too, of course. I'll see to that." He raises his hand to forestall my protests. " _Please._ It would be my pleasure."

Simcoe's pleasure is certainly the last thing I want to think about, and if he thinks he can buy me with the promise of a new dress he is definitely on the wrong track, but I really _do_ need shoes, so I bite my lip and settle for a short nod. He will hear no thank you from me, that much is certain.

But he doesn't seem to care, he just smiles, as if he were actually happy to be able to do something for me. I consider briefly to again beg him for letting me go, but I know there's no reasonable chance for that and I have no desire to further abase myself by trying.

 

Simcoe takes off his uniform jacket and hangs it over the back of the chair. Then he loosens his black cravat as well and seats himself in the chair at the small table. "You must be hungry," he says. "Take a look at my bag. I have allowed myself to bring my dinner to share it with you."

Still suspicious and uncertain about his motives, I don't have to be told twice when it's time for dinner and I haven't had anything since my meager breakfast. I follow his reassuring gaze towards the case he brought with him and start unpacking the treasures in it- a whole dinner set; bread and cheese and roast beef and pies, along with a bottle of red wine, glasses, porcellain plates, cutlery, even napkins.

He nods in approval when I display the delicacies on the table between us and then we eat in almost peaceful silence. My too tight dress and my anxiety prevent me from gobbling as ravenously as I did yesterday, but only just. His plate is still half-full when I have finished mine and wonder, embarassed, if it would be alright to go back for seconds.

He wipes his mouth with the napkin and drops it on his plate with a small smile. "Go ahead, help yourself," he encourages me. "I like a lady with a good appetite rather than one who picks at her meal like a little bird."

Regretfully, I drop my napkin as well and shove the plate aside. "Thankyou, Colonel, but I'm quite full." I say woodenly.

He smiles. "John, remember?" He takes the wine bottle and refills our glasses. "As I said before, I don't come here because I stand on ceremony." I sip at my wine to suppress the burning question, why he comes here in the first place. It is quite clear, what he wants from Lola, but he has made equally clear, that _this_ wasn't what he wanted from me. Or has he?

And then, what does he want? I really want to ask him that, but for one, I'm afraid of the answer and for another, I have the vague feeling, he doesn't even know that himself.

 

Simcoe empties his glass and leans back in his chair, hands folded in the back of his head.He looks so relaxed, that I expect him to lay his boots on the table any moment, but of course, mannerly gentlemen wouldn't do such a thing. Nor British officers for that matter. His eyes however- this unsettling arctic blue stare of his, that seems able to pierce right through me like a knife- remain attentive.

"So," he says, without any transition. "Tell me about your brother, Cat. David, if I remember right? He must have been your older brother then?"

"Only a year my senior," I reply automatically.

I don't want to talk about David. In fact, I don't want to talk _at all_. I wish, he would just leave for some place where he would really be welcome- Lola's tent for example. But he doesn't. And his curious gaze tells me clearly that he waits for me to go on.

"David was a private in the Virginia militia. He was killed by a musket's bullet in the battle of Camden." I say.

It's not exactly a blatant lie, but close. The truth is, David has not been killed by the enemy but rather fallen victim to his commander's ill decisions. Major General Gates, the former "hero of Saratoga" brought his forces too deep into British territory, where the resident loyalists refused to provide supplies for his army. Weakened by lack of adequate food, David, amongst many of his comrades, died ingloriously of diarrhea before he had the chance to ever witness a real battle. But I certainly have no desire to share the particulars with the man across me. After all, none of this would have happened in the first place were it not for the British army.

Simcoe nods his head, thoughtfully. The light of the sinking sun peeks through the tent's flap, bathes his pale features in a warm glow and makes a million sparks of burning copper dance across his tousled mane. For a moment, he looks incredibly handsome, an ancient god of war wrapped in flames. Then the light fades and it passes.

"I see," he says in that cool, arrogant tone of his curiously high pitched voice and the impression turns to dust completely."I take it then, since there were no other brothers to avenge him, he- asked _you_ to continue the fighting in his place, should it come to his premature and- doubtlessly heroic demise?"

 

I press my lips to a thin line. Of course, David did no such thing. It has always been _me_ who was eager to emulate him in all things, ever since we were little children. If I had my way, I would have enlisted with him right away when he went away to join the continental army, not once questioning his reasons, his cause would have always been mine as well. Of course it was impossible. Of course, he would have never even thought about something so stupid as his little sister avenging his death. It has been solely my decision- and not a very clever one, given the actual outcome of events.

"Well, I don't have a sister, so I can only speak hypothetically," Simcoe continues. "But I'm quite sure, I would _never_ -"

"David would have never asked that of me either," I interrupt him sharply. "Nor would my parents have ever agreed to that. But they're all dead, as I told you, and thanks to the British invaders, men like _you_. I lost my whole family, my home, everything I knew and loved within only three months. I did what I did because I wanted it, and- and because you left me no choice. But you're quite right, Sir. I would certainly never expect someone like you to understand that."

I pause to catch my breath. I carelessly talked myself into a rage- and towards a man who is widely known to have killed men for way lesser reasons. Unfortunately, holding my tongue has never been one of my outstanding qualities- and being mostly in the company of men, or whores, lately, has done nothing to change that.

But Simcoe only smiles, sympathetically even, or at least that's what he wants it to look like. "I really wish you would call me John," he says softly." And as for the understanding- I never had a sister, true, but I did have three younger brothers. Paulet and John William died as infants and Percy-"

he twists his lips into a bitter line." Percy drowned. I was seven when my father died in Canada, twelve at the time of my last remaining sibling's death, fifteen when my mother died." He looks at me with that intense, wide blue eyes of his. "I then stayed at the house of my godfather, Admiral Graves, until I was old enough to join the army and it could have been none too soon for me.So I think you might well say, I can understand how you must feel. Yes, I think, I know that quite well."

I gulp and force my gaze away from those disturbing eyes. I don't want to hear things like that. In fact, it is hard to imagine that someone like Simcoe has a family _at all._ Or had. Or that he must once have been a child like everyone else. And quite a lonely child, given the tragic history he just told me. But I don't want to know that. To have something in common with a man like Simcoe- even a sad thing like this- is a thought as unwelcome as unpleasant.

"I'm sorry," I force myself to say, mainly because it is the expected answer to a revelation like this. I am not sorry for him personally, of course. And even if the tragic, premature loss of his family and hence, his upbringing in an allegedly cold, loveless place might serve as an explanation of his- problematic temper, his exaggerated ambition to prove himself a great war hero and his general inclination to violence, it is by no means an excuse. I may be sorry for the boy he was, but certainly not for the man he has become. I have absolutely nothing in common with him.

"Very well," Simcoe says with forced cheerfulness and raises from his chair. "I should go. I believe, Lady Lola awaits me."

He takes up his coat and gives me a courteous bow. "Goodnight Cat. And thanks for the lovely company. I must say, I enjoyed our conversation very much."

"Thanks for the food," I reply lamely. I mean to notice that he looks disappointed, but I couldn't tell for sure. Did he really think, a sad childhood story would warm my heart for a monster like him?

 

When he's gone, I sit and wait until I hear him talk to Lola in her tent before I help myself to a second serving of roast beef and another glass of wine.

Due to the unmistakable sounds soon coming from the tent next door, he is definitely more welcome there than here.

 

 

The next morning, Lola enters my tent with the mandatory breakfast of bread, cheese and ale. She takes a look at the remains of my dinner with Simcoe last night and gives an approving whistle. "Roast beef and wine," she notices in a flat voice. "I take it, some here eat better than others-"

"Feel free to help yourself," I mumble under my breath, not in the mood for her sarcasm so early in the morning.

Lola needs no second invitation. She lifts up a slice of roast beef with two fingers and eats it with visible relish, then washes it down with the remaining wine. "It's not that you did much to deserve it," she says as if by way of justification. "Keeping him at arm's length, don't you? I can tell by the way he comes at me- not that I would complain," she adds, when she sees my storm-tossed brow. She stretches herself with a groan. "It's just- he can be quite- demanding sometimes. And he would never finish before me- not saying I don't like it but sometimes, I'm just so _tired-_ forgive me, I think I'm shocking you again-"

"No, no" I hasten to assure her although she sure does. "It's just- I'm sorry, but did you just say, you- _liked_ it?"

Lola gives me a somewhat mischievous smile. "That's how he prefers it," she says. "He doesn't take me like other men, he wants me to like it, too. Some men do, you know? Not _many_ , admittedly," she concedes. "And certainly not when they actually pay for it. But John does. And there's no chance in faking it. He would know-" she sighs.

I shake my head, overwhelmed. This is definitely more than I wanted to know but now that she started it, there's no way I could just forget about it again. "But- but _why_?" I hear myself croak. "Why on earth would he-want that?"

Lola shrugs and helps herself to another slice of cold meat. "I asked him. He said he didn't know. But I have my own theory,"

"You do?" I rasp, my breakfast forgotten. Lola gives me a suspicious look as if she wasn't sure if she should confide intimate wisdom about her customers to a dubious stranger. But then, vanity scrapes a victory over distrust. "Of course," she says smugly. "Not much of a secret, if you ask me. Colonel, foot soldier or whore, even a little prim like you- don't we all want the same in the end?" Dramatically as an actress, she lays her right hand over her heart in her revealing decolté. "To love- and to be loved?" She drops her hand and her stage voice with it.

"Not me, of course," she continues dryly." I'm a _practical_ woman." She empties her wine-glass and bends over me, as if she was about to tell me a secret. "I wouldn't rely too much on his mercy, if I was you, " she whispers. "It may please him to be your knight in shiny armor today, but men's whims are as changeable as the sea. And John- he considers mercy a weakness, even in himself. Care for the advice of a whore who can read men rather than books? Show him strength, and he will eat from the palm of your hand."

She twitches her lips into a smile, revealing her sharp, little white teeth. " Show him weakness, and he will eat you alive."


	5. Know Your Enemy

After finishing my breakfast, I follow Lola outside to join the harlots in their early morning activities.

The amount of dirty laundry and ripped clothes that need mending is seemingly endless, but the day promises to be sunny and lovely and the quiet morning hours, before the camp comes to life, are deceivingly peaceful.

As it seems, Simcoe has not insisted that I have to stay inside the tent during the day, but ordered one of his men to watch me instead, for I can see a solitary figure in forest green - in reasonable distance, but impossible to overlook- stand and watch every movement in front of the whores' tents.

If the other girls see him as well, they don't ask any questions about his presence- either Lola must have told them not to, or, even more likely, they simply don't care. And why would they? In uncertain times like these, with an imminent battle and in a business like theirs, it's apparently every woman for herself.

I'm surprised to learn that at least three of them have children.

They use every free minute to stitch baby clothes and take every penny they earn to the people who look after them when they're at work- unlike the Continental army, who drags a whole appendix of camp followers and their families with it- the British don't allow kids in camp.

They seem to be a nice enough lot overall, as I get to know them better, except for Rachel, a dishevelled,sour looking woman in her thirties, who always keeps to herself and has no nice word for anyone except for potential customers. Every now and then she throws me suspicious glances and she doesn't seem to like Lola much either- out of pure predjudice towards freed slaves, or just because she begrudges her her generous patron, I cannot tell- but the glares from her sly, little dark eyes give me a bad vibe.

I try to ignore them by concentrating on mending the petticoats of one of Lola's dresses. Any catfights amongst the harlots are none of my concerns, I have enough to consider for myself.

 

My mind keeps spinning endless circles about what Lola told me about Simcoe earlier. That he should actually want her to like it. That she actually _liked_ it.

Neither my personal experience nor my imagination are enough to picture how he would manage that- not that I _wanted_ to know any way. Simcoe's qualities as a lover could be of no less interest to me, but it doesn't say for nothing: _Know your enemy and know yourself, then you will not once be defeated in a hundred battles_.

And that all this _is_ a battle, no less than the real ones going on around me, is beyond doubt.

Men like Simcoe live for the war and _everything_ is a battle to them. And they don't like to lose.

With that in mind, every information about my enemy can prove vital. For how am I supposed to beat him in a game if I don't even know the rules?

Lola, for her part, seems to know them. Or so she thinks. Perhaps she can read men, as she claims, and perhaps she's right about Simcoe. It is not hard to imagine that a man like him must be lonely- and for good reason.

Even his allies seem to fear him, and not with all the will in the world I can imagine a woman who would actually like to be courted by him, no matter how far in ranks he may rise. The only kind of affection he will ever be able to get is the one he pays for, and even then, he still seems to believe he has to take efforts to- _please,_ to make it as enjoyable as possible for his lover, even if he pays her, even if she's just a freed slave, so low beneath him as the dirt under his boots.

How sad, when you think about it, and yet how- distinctive.

 

Of course, Lola, as a person, or any other of the harlots who adore him, mean nothing to him. I have no doubts that he would just as easily order to have her killed, and without a second thought, if it served his purpose.

It's not that he wasn't a monster, he just doesn't want to be _considered_ one.

And the same must be true where I'm concerned. His moral concepts may have prevented him from raping me- or having me raped by his fellow soldiers- but he has not saved me out of the goodness of his heart, certainly not.

It's all another game, another challenge. He has picked up my scent when no other man could, and as the hound dog he is, his instincts will force him to pursue it.

To shoot the prey. Tame the wildcat. Prove to himself, that he can do it.

He must consider it child's play. What could be easier a prey than one he has already cornered? One who has nowhere to run? One who is completely at his mercy, defenseless, dependent and alone?

But there's a critical error in his calculations. I may seem inferior in every way, but cats are smarter than dogs. You have to be, when you're physically at disadvantage. And unlike dogs, cats are not addicted to affection, they do not know such a thing as _canine devotion_.

And time is on my side. The Continental army can arrive here any day and he has only so long to play his games with me.

To win, all I have to do is wait. Show him no weakness, just as Lola has advised me. Ignore all his sweet talk and attempts to evoke my sympathy by telling me sad childhood stories, anything to break my defences.

 

The sudden relief about these insights is so strong that I can hardly suppress a triumphant laugh.

Child's play, indeed. For _me_.

I don't have to be afraid. He won't harm me, I'm sure of that, now. He wants me to come to him, voluntarily, but nothing could be more far from me. And he won't know it until it will be too late.

 

The smug self- satisfaction about my analysis lasts all day and doesn't even waver, when his unmistakable shape shows at our tents by the break of dusk. If he notices it, he doesn't let it show.

He brings me dinner, as he did yesterday, and I don't have to pretend to be grateful and enjoy my meal, I have not eaten as well as in his captivity for a long time, and there's no reason in denying the food just because you hate the feeder. Every smart cat knows that.

The dinner processes in an atmosphere of deceptive harmony, while I am aware every second that, under the surface of politeness and relaxation, we are circling one another, studying each other like opponents on a battlefield.

His fingers brush mine a moment longer than necessary, when he hands me the salt, and I neither withdraw them nor let show I even noticed.

I smile absently at his remarks, although I do not even listen to what he says.

When he asks me more questions about my life in my village before my parents' demise, I answer them as perfunctory as possible, making sure, never to ask him questions in return. I'm not interested in anything concerning him.

Only one time, when it comes to Lola- I don't remember when and how the conversation had turned to her- and I more or less involuntarily confess to him, how much the revelations of her former life as a slave have shocked me-there is something like a real conversation evolving between us.

He tells me- and quite fervently so- how much he despises slavery in any form.

"It is the greatest evil of our so-called enlightened age," he says empathically, " a despicable relic of our barbaric ancestors, that needs to be destroyed root and branch." He searches my gaze and looks at me intently when he goes on: "All men are created equal, is that not what your Congress so vehemently demands? But apparantly, this doesn't go for the more than hundred slaves at Washington's plantation in Mount Vernon, nor for the countless others who are drained of their lifeblood for the wealth of their owners, _especially_ here in the south,"

He pauses and takes a draught of his wine, visibly upset. "Tell me, Cat, what do you think will happen to the thousands of enlisted slaves in the Continental army, who have been promised freedom by Congress? They will be sent back to their former owners as soon as the war is over, my word on it. If it was up to _me_ \- but of course, I am just a warrior, whose opinion nobody of the great men appreciates." he ends in a bitter tone.

I empty my glass to avoid having to answer right away. I don't want to hear things like that. I don't want to hear anything that might make me change my opinion towards Simcoe. And I'm not stupid enough not to notice what he's trying to do.

"Well," To my great dismay, I realize that it comes out in a slurred voice. I must have had more of that wine than I thought I had. "Perhaps you have failed your true vocation, then, Colonel," I say flatly. "It's for politics, not for battle."

He studies my face and exhales with a sigh. "Perhaps," he says thoughtfully. He sets down his glass and gets up abruptly. "But I see, I bore you, madam." he says in his usual, smooth voice, taking up my formal tone.

He glances at the remains of our dinner on the table. As usual, I have eaten with better appetite than he has. "I'm glad the dinner was to your full satifaction. I should retreat, now . But before I leave-"

 

He gets up, walks around the table and steps close behind me, before I can do so much as think of a fake polite, empty farewell phrase. "If you permit, let me take a look at your injury."

He gently brushes the hair in my neck aside and pulls down the dress in my back to feel my bruised shoulder. I catch my breath as his calloused, yet cautious fingertips skim across my bare skin, with only the slightest of pressure.

His hand is warm, as it always is, and I can't force my skin from reacting with goosebumps to his touch, every hair of my body suddenly standing on edge. I must indeed have more wine than was good for me.

 _Careless_ , the alarm bells are shrilling in my head.

Unwelcome thoughts start to float through my head, of how it would be to feel those warm, gentle fingers stroke along other parts of my body, of how they would touch Lola to evoke those desperate sighs from her.

"Does it hurt still?" I hear him ask so softly, it almost comes out as a whisper."A woman can only masquerade as a man so long as it comes to her skin," he muses, in a throaty voice. "A woman's skin is so much softer- like a signature- it will always betray her."

His large, threatening presence behind me seems to crush me.

He lowers his head to my neck, as if to inhale the scent of fear and excitement gushing through my every pore. I can hear the blood throbbing in my ears, ready to burst my head. How stupid I am, how _weak_. How could I deceive myself to know the rules of this game, when it really takes so little to unbalance me?

I'm sure he can smell it, the track hound he is, the unmistakable scent of defeat, of submission, he must.

But then, just when I think I can't hold myself back any second longer and lean into his touch, he withdraws his hand.

"I shall have Lola apply a balm from the army surgeon on the injury," he says blandly. "Goodnight, Cat. It was a pleasure, as always."

 

 

This night, sleep won't come easily. Although I press the pillow firmly on my head to drown out the sounds coming from the tent next door, I can still hear them, feel them, the very bed beneath me seems to vibrate with the frenzied energy of their encounter.

I press my eyes shut but I can still see them before my mind's eye, their limbs entangled, lost in an ancient, timeless dance, whose movements I have never learned, which I can only watch from outside, forever excluded.

In that moment I hate him with a vigour, hate them both, hate myself. I swallow my frustrated tears and try to wrap myself tighter in my blanket, but self- righteousness is a cold bedmate, and I am forced to listen to the passionate groans and sighs next door until the bitter end.


	6. The Runt of the Litter

In my dream I am walking through a scenery straight out of hell.

A field after a battle, the ground beneath my feet drenched in blood and littered all over with shredded bodies in British scarlet and Continental blue. I can hear the eerie cries and moans of the dying men around me, feel their blind, feeble hands desperately brush my skirts as I rush them by in nameless horror.

The air is thick with the reek of blood and gunpowder and smoke from the cannons, but there's another scent piercing through it, a musky, feral smell that draws and drags me fowards like an invisible force. As I approach the source of it, I see a Union Jack waving on an earthen mound and beneath it- a violent mating.

A huge hound dog with unusual auburn fur, a beautiful animal, were it not for the shredded remains of his left ear, on a much smaller, slender black one.

It is a scene both terrifying and fascinating and I can't force my eyes off it. The male dog has his powerful fangs locked into the fur in the she-dog's back, keeping her in place, commanding submission, but when I walk closer he lets go of his mate and turns his long, narrow head towards me with a threatening snarl.

Blood drips from his sharp snout. His prey sniffs her chance, and without a moment of hesitation, makes her escape across the field and towards the sheltering trees behind it.

The huge hound dog stays frozen in place for a moment, his arctic blue eyes locked into mine, teeth bared, mighty muscles of his legs flexed, ready to jump, to attack.

But then, suddenly, he seems to make up his mind, turns away and takes up the chase after his escaping prey towards the woods.

I release my breath in utter relief,and at this moment, I feel a cold hand of one of the dying soldiers to my feet grip my ankle. It is David.

His face is so bloodless it looks grey but his eyes burn fever-bright.

"David," Sobbing, I sink to my knees and take his head in my hands. His skin is terribly cold. "David," I whisper. "It's me, Cat. I'll take you home. All will be good-"

His chapped, white lips part and he hisses at me through gritted, bloodied teeth, his voice hardly more than a rattle.

"Traitor." he says, with utmost disgust. " _Whore_. You failed me. I no longer have a sister."

 

 

As one might expect, the next day finds me in a dark mood, David's hateful words from my dream echoing in my head all over again.

He is right to scorn me, of course. I have sworn an oath to slay twenty-one redcoats and effectively killed but one- if at all. A more than miserable result, and what is worse, one I have no hope of improving in the near future despite the approaching battle I am no longer able to participate in. Considering the large number of British troops and their allied forces in camp, it is hard to imagine that it could end other than with a victory of the enemy, but there would certainly be plenty of casualties in the British ranks as well- and none of them from my hand. The battle may even be decisive for the outcome of the whole war and no matter who wins in the end, it will mean nothing more than I have failed my mission.

And if I fail, if I break my oath, I have nothing left.

This oath, this promise I made at David's grave has been all I had, all that made me get up in the mornings since the day I learned of his death, all that kept me on my feet during the day and differentiated me from all the other nameless victim of this war the British occupants have brought upon us.

But when I think about it now, there's no denying that I made it for myself as much as for David, if not even more.

Simcoe is quite right, David would have never demanded such a thing from me, in fact he would have laughed right at my face at the mere idea.

Right from the start, it has always been him who stood in the centre of attention, he was the firstborn, the golden boy, as handsome as charming, the brightest star in a sky full of endless possibilities, the pride and hope of my parents' days and the joy and torment of mine.

When we were little, I would be his second in command in all his adventures and boyish war games on one day, only to be degraded to the lowest lackey on the next, when he found worthier playmates- that is to say, other _boys_.

He made me commit small crimes to his own benefit, _dares_ as he called it, such as stealing brandy from father's medical supplies, and then put all the blame on me when we were found out.

He could be generous and sweet when in good spirits, but also nurse a grudge for weeks over the smallest misdemeanor, and then punish me with cold disregard or call me a silly girl who was too scrawny and ugly to ever find a husband.

More than anyone else, I knew David's radiant appearance to be an illusion, but I believed in it all the same.

One would think, that the fact that I knew him better than everyone else, knew him for the bad sides he was eager to hide from the world, would have brought us closer together, but that, as I only realise now, was not the case. On the contrary, he must have resented me for it.

And still- it was impossible to imagine for any of us that his future could be anything but glorious, no matter what he would do, which path he would choose.

Father was of course hoping he would follow in his footsteps. All his savings and the remains of mother's inheritence were used to send David to Williamsburg to study medicine, despite the fact that he had neither talent nor interest for it, and it was only much later that they learned that he spent his time and their money drinking in the company of men who put revolutionary ideas into his mind rather than with his studies. He enlisted as soon as he turned twenty-one.

But even then, with father furious about his decision and mother worried, it was beyond our imagination that his death could be so imminent, and so little heroic in the end. It was more than they could take. It was more than I could take.

When they learned that David had fallen, my parents could neither summon the strength nor the will to carry on without him- certainly not for me, being only the minor daughter, supposed to muddle through somehow, as cats do, marry some local who would graciously agree to take a dowerless girl.

No one would have expected me to continue the fight in David's stead, to avenge his death and finish what he started. And now it seems, I never will.

 

And even if I somehow made it after all, could it be enough to wipe out the disgrace I brought onto myself? Strictly speaking, I have done nothing wrong, that is, as _yet,_ but that makes no difference.

A sinful thought is just as condemnable as the deed itself, the Bible is very clear about that and God sees everything, as is well known. It may be considered forgivable to accept food from a hand you hate, but certainly not to crave its _touch_.

And if it has stayed with sinful thinking only, then not thanks to my own steadfastness, but only because my enemy chose to spare me this time. Next time, I might not be that lucky.

 

I know I have to run before it comes to this.

Even if Lola has burnt my men's clothes and boots, and despite Simcoe's vague threats towards her-I no longer believe he would really hurt her, should I escape her custody. Of course, the camp's gates are under strict surveillance, but there's still a great amount of tradespeople and servants running in and out each day, so a single woman among them would hardly draw attention, and even Simcoe's ranger in front of our tents must eventually leave his post for a short while, and be it only to take a piss. Or I could make my escape at night, under cover of darkness- not that I would get much sleep anyway with the constant noise coming from the neighbouring tent.

 

 

The company of the harlots with their ceaseless chatter, tolerable enough only yesterday, is hard to endure today, first of all Lola's, and I'm grateful about every potential customer who makes it necessary for me to retreat to my own tent.

With the looming threat of a bloody battle, its outcome uncertain, the soldiers scramble up their last coins to spend them here even more eagerly than before. Lola and the others have barely a minute for their chores today and thus, I hardly ever come to leave my tent, which nips all my escape plans in the bud for the time being.

 

 

I'm sitting on my bed and mend some shirt with little enthusiasm, when the flaps of my tent suddenly open to an unexpected visitor. I have never seen the man before, but according to his uniform, he must be one of the volunteers from the so-called "American Legion", heartily despised by every patriot as the worst bunch of bunglers within the British army, and led by no other than the ill-famed renegade Benedict Arnold himself.

What on earth was he doing here? Lola is momentarily busy with a customer next door, but there should be enough of the other girls to take care of newcomers. He shouldn't be in my tent. I wrinkle my brow and give him an unfriendly stare.

"Got lost?" I ask, as dismissively as possible.

The man before me is young, blond and sturdily built, with full cheeks which take on a tell-tale red at my question. Judged by his evident nervousness and embarassment, he is not used to the company of whores- or women, for that matter. Most likely another one who is afraid to die a virgin in the upcoming battle.

I see the Adam's apple in this thick throat jump visibly when he gulps. "I hope not," comes his hesitant answer. "One of the other- ladies sent me in here. Said you were free."

His gaze wanders awkwardly through the tent, before he makes a helpless gesture with his right hand. "A brunette," he clarifies. "Quite grouchy, if you ask me-" he finishes with a nervous laugh.

I understand. Rachel, the sneaky bitch. She's usually happy enough about any customer who picks her- most soldiers prefer the merry sort- which means that she must have sent him to me on purpose, and out of pure spite. Because she knows quite well I never receive anyone except for the Colonel himself.

 

The soldier is still standing in the tent's entrance, uneasily fiddling with the hat in his hands, and suddenly an idea forms in my mind, so daring and vicious that I'm scared of myself for a moment.

Enemy is enemy, here as well as on the battlefield. And a customer would certainly lay down his weapons before he- well, came to business.

Better still, this man looks nothing like an experienced soldier. I could take his bayonet before he even knew what was happening.

He could be my number two.

It would of course not go unnoticed but I could tell Simcoe, it was an accident, an act of self-defence, that the man tried to rape me. His reaction is hard to predict, but somehow I'm convinced he would buy such a story. He has protected me from being raped by his fellow soldiers, he would protect me again now, I'm sure of it. And even if not, the important thing is that David could be proud of me after all.

All these thoughts rush through my head in a split second. "Why, yes, "I say slowly and put my needlework down. "I'm free, as it is."

 

My victim exhales, visibly relieved and takes a step closer. "How much is it?" he asks.

Good question, because I have no idea of what would be a reasonable price. How much do I cost?

"How much do you have?" I ask in return.

Labouriously,he searches his pockets and then produces a rather flat looking purse. "Five Shillings," he announces after a confirming look. "My weekly pay. Is that- enough?" So my price is set to five shillings.

"Of course," I say and pat the matress next to me. "Why don't you make yourself comfortable, Private-?"

"Sturridge," he hastens to introduce himself. "Joseph. And you are?"

"Millie." I force myself to smile back at him, while the anticipation of my bloody deed washes over me like an icy shower. "I'm Millie."

 

Just as I hoped, he gets rid of his uniform jacket and his weapon-belt and drops it carelessly on the chair next to the bed. My eyes follow his movements before I get up. "You may lay on the bed, while I undress," I tell him in a voice I consider inviting.

He is eager enough to respond to my request and seats himself on the bed, but then he falters. "Should I- should I undress as well?" "If you wish,"I shrug my shoulders, as I walk inconspiciously over to the chair.

I can't decide if it would be safer to just shoot him or try and screw off the blade of the bayonet. It would take a few seconds, which was risky, but a shot would surely be heard- well, it didn't matter in the end. I have already constructed my story, all that matters is that the man is dead before someone else enters the tent.

I hear him sigh. "I'm sorry," he says at last, interrupting my considerations. "I- I don't have much experience in these things." He emits an uneasy laugh. "You don't have a drink for me by any chance? I'm a little nervous as it is. It's my first time, you know. First- battle, I mean, not- ah, screw it, it's my first time overall. I-I guess I'm just scared. Forgive me, if I sound stupid-"

 

Exhaling, I close my eyes and drop the hand, which already gripped the barrel of his musket. "Listen Joseph," I say. "I've made up my mind. You'd better leave now."

 

He opens his mouth as if to object but then slouches his shoulders. He looks disappointed, but not really surprised, as if he is used to being turned down. He really is young, I notice with a sudden pang of unintended sympathy, probably not much older than David was when he died. No one should die so young.

 

Devastated as I am that I'm apparently not able to take the chance at avenging my dead brother, I'm so terribly relieved about it at the same time that my knees threaten to give in under me.

"It's nothing personal." I say quickly. " I just- I'm not feeling well. But don't worry," I add and try an encouraging smile."You will survive this battle, I'm sure of it."

 

And I mean it. It's always the cowards who survive and I should know. Apparantly, I am one of them.


	7. Siege

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Here's a little smut to make up for it ;)

Joseph Sturridge does not survive the battle as I have promised him; in fact he doesn't even live to see it.

He gets shot as a deserter only one day after our encounter- but even though he dies a virgin as he feared, he doesn't die a coward as well, because in a last heroic action he saves the lives of his comrades. Of course, I never get to know about this until much later, but it should be his selfless sacrifice that entails a course of events affecting both my captor and myself.

For the moment, I am dizzy with relief. I was so close to killing a man in cold-blood, but I couldn't bring myself to do it in the end and I'm glad about it.

 

The Continental army has slowly closed the circle around Yorktown, but it is still standing in waiting position. Washington can't force himself to the decision to strike in the south instead of marching towards York City as originally planned, although all his advisers and generals try to persuade him on a daily basis to do just that. Clinton, in return, hesitates to send reinforcements, because he received intelligence information about a planned attack on his main base. In the end, it will be he who has waited too long.

Of all this I know equally nothing, all I know is, the battle is obviously delayed- which means further tormenting uncertainty for everyone, and for me specifically, Simcoe's inevitable visits in my tent every night.

 

After last time and my alcohol-induced moment of weakness, I would have expected him to make the next move, take the offensive, but he doesn't.

On the contrary even, he rather seems to _retreat_.

He brings the balm for my bruised shoulder as promised, but makes no move to apply it by himself, he just gives it to me to use it when I'm alone.

He dines with me as before ( the food he brings continously good and abundant, although I have heard stories of soldiers beginning to slaughter their horses for lack of meat ), but he never even touches my hand again, if avoidable.

More than that, he is as polite and attentive as ever and as the week progresses without any signs of a possible assault from him, my defensiveness begins to slacken.

Perhaps it was only the oppressing fear in his presence that made me ascribe all kinds of supernatural abilities to him, perhaps he has never even noticed how close I was to defeat. He is only a man after all, not a dog able to smell my heat. Perhaps he is not even interested in me in this regard.

And why would he be? He has Lola, who visibly- or rather audibly- satisfies his needs to the fullest extent, and who knows how many other women there might be or have been, either here in the colonies or back in England, who have come to appreciate his bedroom skills, even felt something for him beyond that? I wouldn't have believed this only a few weeks ago, but the man I have come to know no longer matches the picture of the monster I heard of. Apart from his shredded ear, his unearthly pallor and the unsettling stare of his glacial blue eyes, he isn't a bad looking man either. There are likely women out there who would happily give him what I feared he would take from me with force. The thought is not quite as comforting as it should be.

 

I try to sound out Lola about it- carefully of course, I don't want to seem too interested- but luckily she is all too willing to share her insights.

"He's sad, isn't he? More when I first met him than he is today, though." she adds a little smugly. "I told him outright then, and he didn't deny it. If there was a woman in his life, well- I'd guess, it didn't end well."

 

A new hope starts to rise up in me. I'm still convinced, all this is a game to Simcoe and I am nothing more than a test object to confirm some theory of his or another, but now I start to develop my own. The way he treats me is perfectly respectful - except for the fact that he still holds me captive, of course, and that he refuses to address me with my family name as would be proper, just like I still refuse to call him by his Christian name - but he no longer says or does anything inappropriate.

It is almost as if he was playing some sort of parody of domestic life, in which I play the part of the wife he eats and talks with, and Lola the one for, well- the rest, because he still goes to her every night after leaving me.

And even if Simcoe is in every way a man of war, practically predestined to breathe his last most heroically on some battlefield, there's still a chance, that he might not. And then, he would want to start a family as every man does, and that would require courting and winning the affection of a woman, most likely some genteel English upper class girl. Things like that need- practice.

And perhaps, this is what he really sees in me- a training partner, a secret would-be wife who, conveniently, can't run away when he does something wrong. Someday, some rich English heiress will profit from his attempts in courtesy towards me- as well as from the things he practises in Lola's bed. It is not an exactly flattering theory, admittedly, but one that guarantees a certain safety for me.

With all that in mind, I notice that I can bear Simcoe's presence in my tent, start to enjoy his company even.

Blocking out every threatening thought of the gory beast he may be on the battlefield, the staged civilian that sits across me every evening turns out to be a fascinating conversational partner- educated, eloquent and full of unexpected interests. And I, after a long day of dull domestic chores in the company of the whores and all their raunchy gossip about their customers, which equally embarasses and excludes me, begin to look forward to Simcoe's visits and more-inspiring subjects of conversation.

We talk about almost anything- that is, _he_ talks most of the time and I listen-anything except for the war. It is as if the war wouldn't even exist in this surreal, self-contained space he builds around us.

Instead, I find in him a fervent admirer of the Classics and myself soon dragged into a heated discussion about Homer's Troy- I have always favoured the Trojans over the Greek, but he, of course, sides with the party who was victorious in the end.

My knowledge cannot compete with his in any way- as a girl, I have never even been to school and all my 'education' comes from reading the few books in my father's possession on any possible occasion- but he doesn't seem to care. He asks me a lot of questions about my life in our village and my father's work as a doctor and listens attentively to doubtlessly deadly dull descriptions of set bones and pulled teeth, but most of the time he is content to talk about himself.

Always childhood stories, the few happy memories he seems to have of his life back in England, but even those always clouded with sorrow because the one thing we share is a dead family.

 

And same as for me, it is the death of his brother which still pains him the most.

Percy.

Whom he was forced to watch drowning when he himself was just a boy. It is always there where all conversation leads to in the end.

"I couldn't do anything, the current was too strong," Simcoe says as if by way of defence. "It all happened so fast- he was there one moment and gone the next. If I had jumped after him, I would doubtlessly have drowned as well. And still," he sighs and buries his head in his hands. "I should have tried all the same. If there was even the slightest chance-perhaps it was God's way to test me and I didn't realize it. And failed. Because I was too scared. And so I lost him."

When he looks up at me again, his eyes are of a tell-tale red.

"Nonsense," I say quickly.

Even grown up with the idea of a vengeful rather than forgiving God, I surely don't think it could have been in his interest to torture a twelve year old boy like that. "As you said, you couldn't have done anything. It wasn't your fault."

"I know." My answer seems to give him some solace, for he attempts a smile. It comes out more like a pained grimace than anything, but at least he doesn't cry which would be much worse.

"But if I could go back to that day at the river, if it was somehow possible, I would jump and try to save him."

"Then it is good that it isn't possible," I argue. "Because you would drown as well and that wouldn't help anyone, only double the grief of your mother. It would be a pointless death and it wouldn't bring your brother back in any case."

Simcoe's eyes, still sparkling with uncried tears, flash at mine. "Killing twenty-one British soldiers will not bring yours back either." he says softly.

 

So this is what all this was about? I can't believe I walked into his trap so easily.

"No, no," he goes on quickly when he sees my pinched expression. "It wasn't my intention to call you a fool for it, on the contrary. I understand you much better than you think." I release my breath with a sigh.

"But I am a fool," I admit in a low voice. "I doubt David would even have appreciated what I planned to do. And were our roles reversed, I'm quite sure he wouldn't have done the same for me. I loved my brother more than anyone, but it's only now that I realize the feeling may not have been- mutual."

"Then it is he who was the fool," Simcoe says, still in this silky- soft voice. "Forgive me, I know they say to speak no ill of the dead, but-" He pauses, sets his wine glass down and watches me intently.

"But it doesn't matter in the end, does it?" he continues, more vividly now. "You and I, Cat, we are not so different. We'd do anything for the ones we love. Even if they won't appreciate it. Even if they don't derserve it."

 

Somehow, I know he is no longer speaking of David- or even Percy.

"Who was she?" I ask before I can stop myself. He blinks, momentarily confused."Pardon?"

It's too late to backpedal now. I lift my own glass and empty it. "The woman who broke your heart," I clarify with glowing cheeks. "Lola says there must have been someone before- before you met her."

"You're talking about me with Lola?" Simcoe asks, sounding equally delighted and surprised-although I really don't know why he should be. What else would Lola and I talk about after all?

Simcoe drops his gaze. "The woman you speak of, the woman who broke my heart quite thoroughly, her name was Anna," he says very softly, looking down at his hands, then up to me again."But as it turned out, she was a rebel spy-"

"Oh." _Was_?

"Indeed." he says with a crooked smile."I never found out about it before she left the town I was then stationed in. I never saw her again, I don't think I ever will, and it's probably for the best, for both of us." His long, pale fingers have begun to drum nervously at the tabletop. "Some things are not to be, I guess," he shrugs. "At least, not for me. But that's fine. I'm content with the way things are."

 

It is then, that the defensive walls around me crack and break down.

It is then, that I reach out and cover his hand with mine- to stop the unnerving drumming of his fingers as I want to think, but then my fingers are suddenly entwined with his and squeezing tightly.

All my reservations, all my fears, yes, time itself suddenly seems to cease to exist.

When I realize my mistake, it is too late and we both know it.

He glances down on my hand entwined with his and then back up to me.

He stares at me, his eyes savage and yet so- vulnerable at the same time, and it makes every hair on my body stand on end. I gulp, try to regain composure, try to stop the inevitable.

"It's late, " I manage to say in a throaty voice as I withdraw my hand. "I think Lola must be waiting for you."

His gaze doesn't leave mine. "I suppose so," he says in a strange voice, much darker than his usual one. "But maybe I don't want to go to her tonight. Maybe I want to stay right here, with you."

 

And when it takes me an instant too long to decline while I'm still stunned with shock, he suddenly lunges forwards, reaches out and slams his hand into the hair in the back of my head to pull me to him.

I have been so foolish to think he retreated, I should have known better that he has only waited for the right moment to attack, the predator he is.

When our lips touch, it comes as a shock, the sensation so intense it makes me jump.

I tumble backwards, away from him, but he follows me easily, walks around the table, relentless determination now burning in his eyes, and corners me in the back of the tent, his heavy body against mine, one of his hands on my hip to press me closer to him and the other, yanking my head towards his mouth for a greedy kiss.

I believe to hear a growl rising in his throat when he grazes my lower lip with his teeth, opening my lips for his searching tongue. I can taste the ravenous hunger on it,the burning rage, the heavy wave of excitement that rushes through the hunter when he brings down his prey.

My body and mind falling apart in a blurred haze, I blindly grasp at him for something to hold on to, until my fingers find the handle of the knife in his belt and without so much as a conscious thought I pull it from its sheet and press it against his chest.

"No," I gasp, tearing my mouth from his.

He inhales sharply, as the sharp blade cuts through the skin under his shirt, but instead of pulling back, he rips off the fabric and leans against the knife, his eyes dilated and fever- bright. "Yes," he breathes in a ragged whisper. "Do it."

Shocked, I lower my gaze to the broad, furred chest underneath his shirt and notice the red mouth I just induced right above his nipple, now quickly filling with his blood. With a small cry, and more instinctively than anything, I drop the knife and press my mouth to the wound, just like I would suck at an accidently pricked finger while stitching.

Simcoe emits a deep groan when he feels my lips suckling at his wound, and then his shaking hand finds mine and guides it firmly to the bulge in his pants. "Please," he almost whimpers against my hair.

 

It all feels so unreal. I look up to him. His face is flushed, his gaze completely open, bare of any calculation and raw with desire.

Slowly, I slip my hand down his breeches and then close it around his rigid shaft, feel it throb under my fingers, so warm and vigorous, _alive_.

He stifles a groan and his body tenses when I start to stroke him, tentatively at first, but soon getting bolder, oddly pleased by the unmistakable reaction I cause. I've never done this before, of course not, and it should feel wrong, but it doesn't. Instead, it feels totally -natural, necessary even. It is only my hand, after all, I try to convince myself. This can't be such a grave sin.

 

One of his hands still buried in my hair, Simcoe pulls me up to kiss me again, breathing hard, aroused groans into my mouth, while his other hand frenziedly hastens to pull up my skirts and then it slides between my thighs to find the tell-tale slickness there. I gasp and my legs threaten to give in under me when I feel his large, warm hand cupping my sex.

His strong fingers slip between my folds and start to explore it, carefully pushing forwards and inside me as much as possible. "Oh Cat," his voice against my mouth sound incredibly tender, "Don't worry. I won't -I would _never_ -"

He yanks my head back to look me in the eyes, when he sees me shiver. "It's ok. You needn't fear. I won't hurt you. Just- just _breathe._ "

 

But I can't. Literally.

In fear of suffocation, I start to unbutton my too-tight corset and he, eager to follow my example, gets rid of his shirt and pants before he carries me over to the bed.

The blood from his stab wound pours forth and I keep pressing my lips on it to cease the blood stream,then back to his mouth on a rotating basis, making him taste his own blood on my tongue. My hand squeezing and working his swollen manhood, I feel his fingers dance inbetween my folds in increasingly faster circles.

In the end, he wins the battle, but it's a tight outcome. I bury my face in his neck to stifle my moans when the pressure inside me erupts in a violent, ecstatic peak, and only moments later I feel his warm seed sprinkle my bare thighs, dress and the blanket beneath us.

 

For a long while, there is no other sound than our own, heavy going breathing.

 

Then, he reaches out and brushes the hair from my sweaty brow, pulling my head to him. "Cat," he whispers my name into my hair, his voice cracking with a surprising tenderness. "My sweet, sweet Cat. I have wanted this for such a long time."

"So have I," I reply and when I say it, I know it is true. There's no sense in denying it, not anymore.

He gets up and searches for a towel to wipe my thighs clean from his sperm. "I'm sorry about the dress," he says airily. "Best you take it off, hmm? I still owe you a new one any way."

Before I can even think of protesting, he has already unbuttoned the remaining buttons of my corset and pulls the dress over my head, leaving only a translucent chemise to protect my body from his covetous glances.

Slowly, he runs his fingers across my contours under the thin fabric and I inhale sharply when I feel my nipples stiffen at his touch.

He shakes his head in wonder. "So beautiful, " he rasps. "Has there really never been anyone? I find that hard to believe-"

"Not quite so unusual considering that my parents died and left me with nothing," I snort, before I notice that it came out more bitter than intended.

The last thing on earth I want is his _pity_. "But before-well," I go on, before he can utter anything of the kind. "Before- there was Tom. He was the son of the town's butcher and his assistant, and sometimes he would come and help father when it came to complicated surgeries. A nice enough man, quiet, kind, dark hair and eyes and strong- as you have to be in that business I guess-"

Simcoe's eyes narrow and he has unconsciously furrowed his brow at my description. It is clear, he is not too keen on learning more about handsome Tom.

"What happened?" he asks seemingly indifferent. I shrug my shoulders. "He went to the army as they all did," I say. "Never came back. He was in David's unit and died along with him." Simcoe seems pleased to hear that.

The truth is, and despite Tom's good looks and overall kind nature- he always managed to detour some of the best pieces of meat for us under his father's nose- I never really felt at ease at the thought of being touched by hands which otherwise butchered and dismembered pigs all day.

Ironic enough, given the fact, that the hand which so tenderly caresses me now has likely killed more men in this war than Tom has pigs in his whole life. And which right now gently pushes the fabric of my chemise up my thighs for a second round.

 

With a somewhat mischievous smile, my captor looks down on me, his eyes hazy with desire. "I would like to try something else, if you don't mind?" he says.

Before I can reply, he bends down and captures my mouth again for a long, greedy kiss. I still struggle for breath as he pulls back just to lay a hot, wet trail of kisses along my throat down to my breasts and belly.

He lifts my hips up and shoves me gently against the pillow on the top end of the bed, to take his place between my legs. I throw my head back as all the blood in me seems to rush to it all at once, both from embarassment and arousal, when he spreads my thighs and lowers his head to the throbbing heat inbetween to take a taste of my wetness.

The feeling is almost too intense to bear and I try to pull away, but the grip of his hands against my inner thighs is strong and rigid, firmly pinning me in place.

All I can do is press my head against the pillow to choke the desperate sobs that escape my mouth at the sensation of his hungry tongue eagerly exploring my most sensitive spots, the brush of his stubbles against the soft skin of my thighs.

I reach down and bury one hand in his tousled shock of hair, which feels surprisingly soft under my fingers and the other, in his pale, muscular shoulder. He groans and tenses and doubles his efforts when I dig my nails into his flesh deep enough to leave bloody crescents.

An impossibly intense peak washes over me like a surging wave, my head about to burst, my heart racing so fast I'm sure I must die.

And still he doesn't stop, still he goes on, until it starts to be painful rather than pleasant and I have to practically tear his head by the hair from me, and my fingernails leave a bloody scratch trail on his shoulder when he finally withdraws. He takes a look at my face and then, over his shoulder to inspect the affectionate scratch marks I just added to numerous other scars of war.

"Really now, " he says dryly. "is that the thanks for my efforts? You could have just said 'stop'."

I struggle to sit up, still trying to catch my breath. "But I -I did ?"

"No you did _not_ ," he complains, but he smiles. "You scratched my back and pulled out half of my hair-as would be expected of a wildcat-"

"I'm sorry," I lower my head, both to pull my hem back down over my thighs and to hide my burning cheeks. "It's just- it was just _too much_ -"

"I take it, you- liked it then? I sure did," Somewhat mollified, he licks his lips and gives me a roguish grin. "Better than wine. And speaking of-"

 

He rises from the bed and, naked as he is, walks over to the table and pours us two glasses. He comes back to the bed and hands me one, and I can't help but notice that his manhood has by now risen to full size again.

"Well, I think, I _might_ be persuaded to forgive you," he says, following my gaze to his impressive errection.

I almost choke on my wine and quickly gulp it, before I look up at him, wide-eyed. "You want me to- to do that for you as well?" I croak.

He is visibly shivering with excitement. "God, _yes_ ," he whispers. "But you don't have to," he adds quickly at the sight of my doubtful expression. "I would be more than grateful if you could -well, give me a hand again, so to say-"

 

I hold his gaze and release my breath with a sigh. At this point, I can hardly sink any lower, can I?

"Are you no longer afraid of my teeth then?" I ask him when I get on my knees and bring my mouth close to the quivering tip of his errection. I believe he flinches slightly and can't hide a small smile.

"You wouldn't dare," he says, sounding not entirely convinced about it. I raise a brow at him.

"Scared?"

"Me? Never." he says in a dark voice.

He reaches out and takes my face in his hands, his fingertips softly grazing my lips, which are still red and swollen from his kisses.

"Let's try and find out then," I say and take him in my mouth without further ceremony.

 

 

Later I lie next to him on the bed, snuggled in his warm embrace. "I must leave," he murmurs into my hair.

"Yes," I mumble back, my face buried in his furry, bloodied chest. Customers don't stay overnight. And his duty begins in the early morning hours.

 

But he doesn't move. His hand traces along my bare back, feeling the slight twitching of muscles under his caress. "You're purring," he notes, delighted. "I can hear it."

 

And perhaps he can. I may be relaxed enough to do so, all the usually gloomy pictures in my mind momentarily turned into bright, colourful landscapes, and surely I'm too tired to answer. I breathe the warm, musky scent of his skin in, and slowly sink into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	8. The Cat Whisperer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the long delay! The last weeks have been extra stressful. To my fellow German readers, Happy Unification Day ♥

I am alone when Lola comes to wake me up the next morning.

Despite having indulged in the deadly sin of lust more than extensively, my sleep was deep and peaceful, free from nightmares of blood-soaked battlefields and vengeful, dead brothers.

Could it be that David wasn't angry at me for what I did- and after all, had I not tried to defend myself? In the beginning anyway. Later on...no. It was more likely that he was too shocked and disgusted at my behaviour to even come and haunt me in my sleep now.

Sinned I had, this could not be denied. That it had felt so good made the fact only more true. After all, if sinning felt bad, who would want to do it? I know I should feel guilty, and dirty, but I don't. I'm only tired. We had not slept much last night.

Not that Lola cares if I want to get up or not. As usual, she doesn't bother to knock or announce herself in any other way. She just walks into my tent and drops the tray with my breakfast next to my bed, then her gaze roams over the stained, crumbled sheets and she soundly sniffs her nose.

"Well, well, well," she sings. " _Someone_ had fun last night- and it wasn't me."

She walks over to the table and inspects the remains of our dinner. It isn't much, we had both been hungry again after the second round, and emptied all the wine as well.

"Does he pay you now, too? He'd better." She turns around to me, as I reluctantly raise my head from the pillow. "Pleasure is transient but money remains- oh my _god_ , look at you-"

Lola rifles through Millie's belongings in a corner, produces a small mirror and holds it up in front of my face.

Bleary-eyed, I blink at the face beneath the tangled mane on my head. The right side of it- the one that must have been resting on my lover's chest- shows a pretty pattern of imprints from his chest hair and is covered in dried blood. Lovely.

"It's nothing." I drop the mirror and give her a crooked grin."You should see the other guy."

"Oh I did," Lola replies dryly. "When he rushed out of your tent by dawn. He looked quite- pleased. What did you do, cut him a little with his bayonet?"

She laughs at my flabbergasted expression. "You learn fast, Cat, I'll give you that."

My face flushes hot. "I don't know what you mean," I defend myself. "It was an accident."

"Really?" Lola sounds amused. "A lucky one, it would seem."

Still chuckling, she walks out of the tent and returns a few minutes later with a basin filled with soapy water. She seats herself at my bedside and, despite my mumbled protests, begins to rub my cheek with a piece of wet cloth, her dark eyes watching my face.

"Did you enjoy it, then?" I drop my gaze as my cheeks grow hot and she nods with a knowing grin. "Told you so. John's not like the others. He knows how to treat a lady. And what he didn't know before, he learned from me." she adds a little smugly. "Anyway, you should see to have him pay you, now that you're one of us." she repeats.

I shake my head. "It isn't like- that, Lola. "It's - different,"

"Is it now? "Lola drops the cloth and gives me a mocking look. "Has he bought you a ring? Don't be foolish, Cat. It's always the same in the end, make no mistake about it. Think of Millie."

 

In fact I have thought of Millie a lot lately. And I have thought, that she has still not returned to resume her old life as a prostitute, as Lola had predicted. But I do not raise objections. Lola knows so much more than me, especially where Simcoe is concerned, and she's been right with everything so far.

Of course, Simcoe isn't going to do such a thing as marry me just because he shared my bed. I may be an absolute beginner in everything in matters of love but I'm not _that_ naive. He is a high-ranking officer and I'm a simple girl from a farming village- not to mention the fact that we are on opposite sides in a military conflict. The mere thought, that Simcoe had fallen so madly in love with me that he would throw all those objections overboard and take me as his wife, is downright ridiculous.

Carefully, I watch Lola's face as she wrings the bloody rag out over the basin and then dries her hands with a towel.

Was she jelous? After all, Simcoe had been hers alone until now; I had never seen him visit any of the other girls but her. Even if he was just another customer to her as she claimed- which I no longer believe after last night- he is certainly one she can't afford to lose.

"You needn't worry," I try to console her. "I'm sure, he will still visit you as well-"

"Of course he will," Lola cuts me off with a grim smile. "You're new, but that's really all you have to offer, and he will tire of it soon enough. You better try and profit from it as long as it lasts, that's all I'm saying."

Again,I want to explain to her that such is out of the question for me, that what had been happening between me and Simcoe last night was different, but I can't seem to find the right words. And how would I? I don't even know what I feel, but whatever it is, it is not _regret_. It had all been so new, so wonderful. And even if all this was just a game for Simcoe in the end, I surely enjoyed my part in it. Not everyone was that lucky with their first time and I'm grateful for it.

"You're right," I say and force myself to a smile. "I'm one of you, now." I get up and pick up my stained dress off the floor. " And today, I will wash my own laundry."

 

 

The day passes in silent activity. Lola had lent me one of her own chemises, a beautiful, lace-trimmed piece of silk and a cloak to wrap around it, and now I sit in front of my tent and wash my stained dress. The sunlight strokes my face and I can feel it through my clothes like a warm embrace on my skin.

If the camp seems more lively and excited than usual, I do not notice it. An overall pleasant feeling of peace is covering me, of security.

It makes no sense- it is still war, I am still amidst enemies, a prisoner. I am still Cat, a wildcat in a camp of wardogs, yet everything is different. Each time I stretch myself or shift my legs I can feel his hands and lips on me again and it makes me shiver all over. I'm not in _love_ , I tell myself, of course not. But I can't wait for the day to end, can't wait for Simcoe to return and finish what he started, just to make sure...

I peer at the faces of the other whores. Do they know what I know? Have they ever felt this way, too?

When I watch their weary, jaded faces, it is hard to imagine that they have ever experienced such bliss, _especially_ not Rachel, who looks like she has never had a day of fun in her whole life. I have not told anyone about her failed attempt to shift an unwanted customer onto me, and luckily she is often away as of lately, running errands or whatever, and I'm just happy if I don't have to see her sour expression.

No, what I feel is for me alone, a secret no one else knows, or at least, no one but Lola- and of course Simcoe.

 

 

But then, when dusk falls and he doesn't come, my heart begins to sink.

Lola throws me a compassionate glance and offers to share her dinner with me, but I decline. I'm not hungry. My stomach clenches with doubts, doubts turning to bitter certainty when the shadows grow longer and there's still no sign of Simcoe coming to see me like he did every day throughout the last weeks, as regular as clockwork.

When the sun sets at last, I know he won't come any more.

Lola disappears inside her tent with a customer, as do most of the others, and I retreat as well, alone and numb with misery. I should not be so surprised. He's had what he wanted from me, he won the game. He has no reason to come back. Lola was right. It wasn't different and I have been stupid to think it was. It should not hurt so much, but it does. At last, I go to bed, hungry and miserable and drenching my pillow with silly, pointless tears.

 

 

I wake from the sudden breath of cold wind blowing through the tent's flaps.

Blinking into the semi-darkness, I see Simcoe's unmistakable large shape standing with his back to me, as he lights a candle on the table. I rub my eyes and sit up in my bed, and he turns around to face me, his pale eyes sparkling in the twilight. He is in full uniform.

"Cat," he says hoarsely and walks over to the bed to take a seat at my bedside. "Forgive me, I couldn't come sooner." He pauses, and I can't help but notice how tired he looks. "I have reasons to believe that the Continental army will attack tomorrow and it doesn't look good for us as it is."

He grits his teeth, as he continues. "Clinton has demanded to pull out troops from here to secure York City," he explains. "And Cornwallis didn't have the heart to refuse his orders. We're vulnerable here now. The French-" he falters, probably realizing only now who he's talking too.

I gulp. It must indeed be bad if he breaks his own rule never to talk about the war to me.

"The French fleet outnumbers ours by at least a dozen ships and we're cornered in this place with no place to retreat, our army reduced by two bataillions now. There's no better moment for an attack, and if I were the enemy, I would do just that." He pauses and releases his breath with a sigh. "I came to tell you this so you will be prepared," he says and looks at me intently. "I don't want you to be here when it comes to battle. If I cannot come tomorrow,and the battle begins, don't stay in camp and wait for the outcome. Even if the rebels should win- you're not safe here. I already told Lola the same. Go with her and do as she says, she will know what to do."

He bends forwards, takes my face into his hands and bores his deep blue gaze in mine. "I want you to go back home," he says slowly, accentuating each word. "You hear me? When the fighting starts, the Civilians will be let out of camp. Make sure, you're one of them. I want you to promise me that."

 

I hardly hear what he says. All I hear, all I know is, that he has not abandoned me.

I burrow my hand in his hair and pull his head down to me. "Promise me," he demands, his mouth on mine. "Yes," I say, my breath going ragged as his lips touch mine, "I promise," and seal my words with a deep, hungry kiss.

He is the first to pull away. "Cat, I can't," he groans, when I unbutton his uniform jacket to shove it over his shoulders. "I must leave-"

"Right now?" I ask, putting my arms around him and pressing him against me. "Alright,"he breathes hard when he feels the tips of my breasts breasts pierce through his shirt. "Maybe not- _immediately_ -"

 

He lies on the bed next to me and I climb on top of him, hastening to free him of his waistcoat and shirt and exposing his broad, furry chest, his collection of battle scars now enriched by the fresh cut I made last night. I pull the chemise over my head and he reaches up to cup my breasts with his large hands, his fingertips circling my erect nipples. I bend down to kiss him again, and he grabs my hips to press them against the hardness in his pants. My fingers impatiently unbutton his breeches.

"Careful," he rasps, as I free his member, eager to rub my wetness against him . But I don't want to be careful. My virginity is something I have no longer use for. I grasp his rigid shaft and guide its tip inside my wet folds.

Simcoe throws his head back and inhales sharply, I feel his strong thighs quiver beneath me as he forcefully holds himself back from pushing inside me. "Cat," he gasps and reaches out to clutch my arms. "Are you- are you _sure_?"

"Yes," I say, my eyes searching his, holding his gaze. "I want it to be you. Don't you-don't you want it, too?"

"More than anything," he whispers."But it's going to hurt," he warns me, his breath going fast. "Just- scratch my chest, if you have to."

His voice turns into a ferocious groan when I lower my hips on him and take him inside me. He tries to be careful, barely grinds his hips into mine, giving me time to adjust to his size, but he's all but small, and it _does_ hurt. But I welcome the pain, welcome the unwonted feeling of being so completely filled, welcome the smell of my own blood mingling with the scent of our arousal.

He has his eyes shut tight for once, in order to savour the sensation to the fullest and I enjoy the look of utter abandon on his face. When I slowly start to move,he reaches out and strokes me as he did yesterday, his fingers eagerly circling my most sensitive spot. Pain melts into pleasure until I can no longer tell which is which. When I feel him tense and stiffen, he tries to push me off and pull out, but I clench him even tighter to keep him inside me and dig my nails into the flesh of his shoulders to pin him into place. I wanted this and I want all of it. Surrendering, he yanks his head back, and with another violent thrust and a deep groan his seed floods my insides like a warm, life-giving rain.

 

This time, he doesn't hold me afterwards, or rather, only so long until our ragged breathing returns to normal, then he pushes me softly off him, gets up and dressed with his back to me.

"Remember," he says, when he's done, in a flat voice and still not looking at me, "If I shouldn't come tomorrow and the battle starts- you run. At the first opportunity. Take this-"

I rather hear then see him pulling out a wallet from his pocket and throw it on the table. It is clinking heavily with coins and I swallow a lump in my throat. So he has paid me after all.

"I don't want your money," I say and defiantly cross my arms over my chest.

He turns to look at me at last. "Don't be stupid," he says with an indignant frown. "You have missed no chance to tell me the British army has robbed you of everything, haven't you? You will need money and mine is as good as anyone's."

He falters, then unsheats his knife and puts it on the table next to the purse. "Keep the knife, too. Don't use it until you absolutely have to, but if you do," he burns the wide-eyed stare of his pale blue eyes into mine. "Make sure you use it to _kill_ ." Then he turns his broad back on me and walks out of the tent.


	9. Valediction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warnings about graphic descriptions of violence in this chapter, if only in a dream sequence. And of course I'm deeply sorry for the vast amount of historical inaccuracies around the Battle of Yorktown.

In my dream, I am on the blood- soaked battlefield again, desperately looking out for the big, red-haired hound dog I met there before.

The scenery is even more horrific than last time. The ground is still littered all over with dead soldiers, who, judging by the condition of their bodies, must have been lying here for days now, the rot has already set in and the nauseating smell of decaying corpses fills the air.

Why has no one come to retrieve them, I think in incredulous horror as I watch the festering faces and bloated bellies under their tattered uniform rags. This is outrageous, a wicked sacrilege. They deserve a Christian burial, they shouldn't just be abandoned here to rot away in the open air.

 _And David is one of them_. The moment the thought crosses my mind, I can see him too, he lies only a few feet away from me, dead and gone like the others.

I must take him home, I think, panicking. I owe him that much at least.

I walk closer and look down on his body. He no longer bears any likeness to the brother I had once known- the waxen flesh of his face is burst open in several places, one of his eyes blind and glassy like a marble, the other one nothing but an empty, dark socket, probably eaten by crows like his lips, his whole face an obscene, gruesome grimace of death.I feel my stomach revolt in sickness by the thought of even touching, let alone carrying him.

A faint whimper cuts through the air and I look up and see the red hound dog, on the same earthen mould where he had been coupling with his mate before, but now alone, his large, slender body curled around the tattered Union Jack as if to protect it.

He no longer looks threatening, as he lies there, his huge jaw closed, hiding his dangerous teeth, his arctic blue eyes looking up to me in the heartbreaking way only a dog's can.I release my breath in utter relief and turn away from David to walk over to him.

David is beyond my help and it would be no use to retrieve his corpse, but the dog is real. And alive. And _he_ is the one I must rescue.

I want to go to him but at this moment, David's body at my feet awakes from his rigor mortis and I scream as his half- skeleted hand grabs my ankle just like he did in my first dream. He sits up and turns his remaining dead eye on me, which is now burning with a cold, inhuman green light. With surprising strength he flings me aside and I land on the muddy ground with a shocked cry.

My once-brother rises to his feet, awkwardly, his movements jerky and contorted, like driven by a force outside himself. He turns around and looks across the battlefield behind him, then he unsheets and raises his sword and holds it over his head. His bare teeth unclench and a hateful hiss escapes his destroyed mouth.

" _Rise, my brothers_ " he cries out in a horrible, croaking voice. " _Rise again and show them hell_!"

At his words, an eerie moan goes through the mass of dead bodies on the ground and with a clattering noise of their bones they awake and rise and stumble towards him, a dreadful legion of the dead.

The red hound dog emits a deep growl and his hackles rise in alarm. I want to get up and run to him, but as it often is in dreams, my legs are suddenly heavy like rocks and I am unable to move.

"Run," I cry out to the dog, who has risen to his feet and bears his fangs to the approaching army of corpses. "You can't fight them! _Run_!"

His pricked ears twitch slightly at the sound of my voice but he doesn't move, every muscle in his body tensed, ready to attack. He never backs down from a fight, however gruesome the enemy, and I should know better than expect him to.

The first two or three dead soldiers approach him and he lunges forwards and I hear the disgusting sound of breaking bones when he burrows his huge jaw in their dead flesh and tears them to pieces. The corpse soldiers fight as raggedly as they move and the ground around the hound dog is soon littered with shredded bodies, but their number is endless and slowly he is growing tired, his fur is covered all over with blood from countless cuts where their weapons have been able to break through his defence.

In the end, they are upon him, a dozen, a hundred, and I can only watch in nameless horror through the veil of tears that blurs my sight, as they sink their greedy, rotten teeth into his fur,tearing out big cuts of meat, eating him alive. His desperate whimpers finally die down and his relentless attackers feast on his dead body.

David- or the undead dread that has once been my beloved brother- turns to me and nods slowly. "Take a good look, Cat," he says in his eerie, buzzing voice." _This_ is what will happen to my enemies."

 

I awake with a loud cry. "Cat? Are you alright?" Lola walks in, her face wrinkled in concern. "Yes," I manage to gasp after a moment. "I had a horrible dream. Sorry for waking you."

"No need," she puts me off. Her eyes fly over me in my blood stained sheets and she clicks her tongue. "I'll fetch you a bath."

Half an hour later, I gratefully heave my battered body into the soothing, hot, scented water. Lola balls up my stained sheets and carries them outside to be washed. When she returns, she notices the purse on the table next to Simcoe's knife.

"So he pays you know," she says with a satisfied nod. She lifts the purse up and examines its weight in her hand."Heavy," she states. "But that's only proper since it was your first time-" she gives me a curious look.

I shrug my shoulders. "I haven't checked," I answer her unspoken question. "And I don't care either. I told him I don't want his money but he insisted on it."

"Good. At least one of you still has a brain."Lola says dryly. She opens the purse to count its content and emits an approving whistle. " _Five guineas_!" she gasps out with big, round eyes. "He gave you that? That's a small fortune! Good Lord, you can buy yourself a house from that-"

I watch her reaction with a sad smile. So my price has risen from five shillings to five guineas in a mere week. Not bad if you think about it. But I cannot quite share Lola's enthusiasm. I know what this is. It's a goodbye gift. I will never see him again.

"He wants me to go home," I say gloomily. "He- he says the fighting will start soon."

"Yes, he told me that, too," Lola confirms. "Well. I'd say we better get a move on then, just in case," she says resolutely. "Simcoe says the camp is as good as encircled and the French have twenty-eight ships coming our way. _Twenty-eight!_ Can you believe that? That's an _awful_ lot. There will be no escape by sea and it's six hundred miles from here back to York City..." 

"You want to go back to York City?" I ask, perplexed.

"Of course," Lola nods. "Back to the home pastures of Holy Ground. Where else would I go?"

I have never thought about this before, nor do I want to think about it at all. I don't want to leave and neither, as it occurs to me only now, do I want Lola to leave _me_. Different as the two of us may be in every respect, and despite the rather- unorthodox- circumstances of our acquaintance, in the course of those last weeks, she has come closest to a friend I've ever had.

"Well, you could come with me-" I start with a hesitant smile. "Help me spend that "small fortune"-"

Lola drops the stained sheets and sighs. "Come with you?" she repeats blankly. "To your Puritan, rebel-friendly backwater in the south you mean? To live next door to slave owners? Really, Cat, you're every bit as stupid as you look."

She shakes her head and turns to leave my tent. "I'll start packing my things," she announces on her way out. "I suggest you do the same."

 

 

The day passes in hectic activity, in camp as well as in the tents of the whores, who, after hearing the rumours of the upcoming battle, hurry to gather their belongings and make their escape.

Not having much to pack myself, I help Lola with her things, lost in gloomy musings. The thought of the battle fills me horror, sure, but no more than the one of returning to my hometown, where nothing awaits me but the dead and a past I no longer feel any connection to.

To live there again, amongst the shadows of what once were, feels utterly bleak and wrong. I don't know where I belong any longer, but it's not _there_.

But what choice do I have? Simcoe made clear he wanted me to leave. _To save me? Or just to get rid of me?_ He had been so distant once he had left my bed, so- cold. And after all, do I really know him at all?

Lola wants to leave the camp right away, but I insist to wait until nightfall, clinging to Simcoe's words that he would come and fetch us if he could. But he doesn't come and neither, does he send one of his men. Instead, the bombardment begins.

 

It seems far away in the beginning, like the rolling of thunder in the distance, but it is quickly drawing nearer.

Washington himself fires the first gun, and legend has it that this shot hits a table where British officers are just sitting at dinner. I don't know if this story is really true, but I surely know that none of us gets much sleep that night due to the constant roar of the artillery.

Washington orders the guns to fire all night so that the British cannot make repairs. Meanwhile, the French fleet sinks more than a dozen ships in the harbour and the British canons on the left side of the defence line are soon silenced. There's only two redoubts left to keep the combined Continental and French forces from overrunning the camp. British soldiers are beginning to pitch their tents in their trenches and desert in large numbers.

Assuming to hit the house where Cornwallis himself is stationed, Washington's men destroy a large warehouse nearby and then I'm out with the others, desperately trying to keep the fire from spreading to our tents.

When a ceasefire is called by the early break of dawn we are all completely exhausted and half deaf from the nonstop canon fire.

 

"Let's go," Lola says determinedly, when the canons have finally been silent for more than an hour."While we still can."

We strap our belongings on and carefully make our way through the camp, terrified by the scale of destruction that enfolds before our eyes. There's only one escape route the Continentals have not yet cut off and a long queue of mostly civilians, camp followers and pedlars, is eagerly waiting to be waved through by two tired-looking guard posts.

I look around and spot one of the rangers on horseback nearby, a young man with a blonde braid, the very man who had been watching our tents on Simcoe's order.

"Wait," I say to Lola, drop my bundle and step out of the line. She follows my gaze. "What are you up to?" she asks with a frown. "We must _leave_!"

But I can't. The horrible pictures from my dream are still vivid in my head. "You go," I say to her. "I'll be right back. I- I just want to know if he's alright."

"Don't be foolish, Cat," she hisses and grabs my arm. "He will be off fighting with the others, as is his order. And _ours_ are to follow his, and _flee_."

"I know," I repeat defiantly and yank my arm free." But a moment longer won't matter now. I have to know."

Lola holds my gaze for a moment and then, nods shortly, the dark lakes of her eyes mirrowing the same concern I feel. I leave her standing there and walk towards the ranger who watches my approach with a surprised frown.

"Do you know who I am?" I ask him. He nods, uncomfortably. "Yes m'am. And I'm here to see to it that you leave the camp safe and sound. Go back to the queue now."

I take a deep breath. "Colonel Simcoe- he- he is alright then? Is he still fighting?"

I see his features cloud. "No, m'am." he replies hesitantly. "He is in the medical tent with a gunshot wound. It must be feared that he will die from it."

The ground seems to sink under my feet and I grab for the horse's bridle to catch my fall. "Take me there," I demand of him in a frantic whisper.

His frown deepens. "That's not what the Colonel said," he objects. "He ordered me to make sure-"

"He will want to see me," I insist, although I'm anything but sure about that. All I know is that I need to see _him_ , at all costs.

The ranger hesitates, visibly embarassed by the woman who is desperately clinging to the bribles of his horse. "Fine," I say. "If you won't take me there, I'll find it myself."

He sighs and bends down to help me in the saddle behind him. I dart a last glance at Lola who stares at us in confusion and gesture at her to leave without me, get herself into safety.

 

 

In the large medical tent, overworked surgeons hurry from one makeshift bed to the next. The room is filled with an odour of sickness and death and the pitiful moans and cries of wounded soldiers. The ranger leads me to the back of the tent and a separated bed behind curtains of canvas to provide a faint illusion of privacy.

I notice a British officer who sits with his back to us and watches it."Simcoe's in there," my companion says and the unknown officer flinches slightly at the sound of his voice, but doesn't turn to face us but instead holds a hand to his head as if to hide his face. Before I can do so much as wonder about his strange behaviour, I hear the doctor's voice coming from behind the curtains of my lover's sickbed.

"Your blood's tainted," he says, sounding anything but confident. "You've been bled to purge it but you're not healing as fast or as well as I would like."

Another voice answers, but so softly and throatily I neither understand nor even recognize it. "Prayer," the doctor's voice replies matter-of-factly. "That's all there is now. I can send for the chaplain-"

"Don't" I hear my lover say with a flare of his old fire. The doctor sighs. "Colonel," he insists. "If you have any loved ones, you should write to them. Get your affairs in order."

 

The curtain is drawn aside as he walks out and I hold my breath at the sight of his patient, who has turned his head sideways at the doctor's words with an expression of utter hopelessness on his face.

He looks even worse than I feared, his face, pale enough usually, is now so bloodless it looks almost grey, his eyes glassy with fever and sunken in deep, red shadows, his lips almost as white as his skin, chapped and torn. His gritty hair sticks to his sweaty brow and the dark red of his stubbles and the fur on his bare torso forms a stark contrast to the deathly pale skin underneath. He looks every bit like a man on death's door.

When he notices me, the desperate expression on his face changes quickly to disbelief and then- to unmistakable anger.

"What the _hell_ is she doing here?" he hisses in the direction of the ranger behind me. "I _told_ you to-is _nobody_ following my orders any more? I am _not_ dead yet!"

The man behind me clears his throat. "I'm sorry sir, but she insisted- " he starts nervously. "She told me you would want to see her-"

"Leave us!" Simcoe's tattered voice growls.

Once the ranger is gone I sink to the chair next to the sickbed and reach out for my lover's face. "Oh God, dear God," I gasp out in a sobbing whisper, unable to hold back my tears. "Forgive me but I just -your man told me you were wounded and I had to come and see you-"

"And now you have," Simcoe replies coolly, turning his head to the wall, dodging my touch.

"But what-who-is it really that bad? Talk to me John, I beg you!"

He gives a deep sigh and turns his head back to face me again. "If only I had known I had to get shot to hear you say my name, I would have done that earlier," he says in an attempt at mockery that soon turns into a painful, gargling cough attack.

He struggles to sit up and I hurry to help him. His skin feels dry and hot to the touch.

Still coughing, Simcoe gestures at his jacket on a table next to the bed. "My canteen," he rattles. "Give it to me."

I reach for his jacket and hand him a small bottle with some strong liquor in it, but he is too weak to even grasp it, so I hold it to his lips and watch him drink greedily. "Ah," he sighs and falls back against his pillow. "Better. The doctor won't allow it, stupid quack-"

He takes a deep, rattling breath. "As to your questions," he says in his throaty whisper. "Who shot me? One of your rebel friends that's who. But I have to blame myself. I was careless- and distracted. Is it bad? You heard the doctor, didn't you? But fear not; I have no intentions on dying. Unlike you, as it seems, since you were stupid enough to ignore my instructions-"

I shake my head while my tears continue to flow. "John, I couldn't leave," I sob. "I knew something terrible would happen and when I learned what happened- how could I possibly leave you behind?"

He watches me for a moment, his pale face an epitome of pain and something else I cannot quite define. "The battle is lost, Cat," he says at last and he sounds terribly tired. "Clinton's fleet with reinforcements won't be able to arrive in time. It's over." His bright, glassy eyes hold my gaze. "But you needn't worry for me. I will be shipped back to Yorktown on the "Bonetta" with the other wounded officers, Washington already agreed to that. Don't you see, you have no business here any more! Do you want to welcome the victorious conquerors in person at the whores' tents? Because that will without a doubt be the first place they will go."

He pauses, visibly exhausted by talking so much. But I don't believe him. He will never make it back to York City, not in his condition, not with the French fleet and their naval blockade in the bay. He will die here.

"I cannot leave you," I whisper and defiantly cross my arms in front of my chest. "And I won't."

Simcoe closes his eyes and emits a desperate groan, clearly at the end of both his strength and his patience. When he looks at me again, his eyes burn in suppressed rage. "Oh yes you _will_ leave," he hisses through clenched teeth, every word a painstaking effort."Don't you see I don't _want_ you here? What are you thinking, Cat, that you're in love with me? That I'm in love with _you_? You're not, and I'm not. Trust me, you mean nothing to me and you never have. It was fun while it lasted, I will admit that much, but I have surely paid you off more than generously, haven't I? Don't you see that I have nothing more to offer to you, and neither-have you to me.-"

He struggles again to rise into a sitting position. "You get that, Cat, do you?" he almost shouts. "Yes," I whisper at last.

"Good." Simcoe releases his breath, sinks back to the bed and closes his eyes again. "Then hurry and get the _fuck_ out of here!"

 

I bite back my tears and get up shaky- legged. I know what he's doing, of course I do, but it hurts nonetheless. It hurts so very much. I catch a last glimpse at his beloved features, now barely recognizable and resembling more his own death mask than the features of a living, breathing man. I drink them in, in order to imprint them on my mind and in my memory, now and for all times.

When I turn around to leave the tent, it is only in passing and barely consciously that I notice that the dark-haired officer, who had been sitting near Simcoe's bed before, is no longer there.


	10. Victors and Vanquished

When I leave the hospital tent, the roar of the artillery has set in again, and it sounds far nearer than before.

As I will happen to hear later, Lafayette and his bataillon used the ceasefire to overrun the remaining two redoubts and Cornwallis, seeing his inevitable defeat coming and fearing the complete destruction of his camp, eventually sent out a rider waving the white flag.

When I arrive at the last safe exit path, however, the guard post refuses to let me pass.

"Too late, m'am," he says regretfully. "The Continentals have cut the last escape route by now. We're surrounded. Best you stay in camp and wait til it's all over. Won't be long now. Don't worry," he adds when he sees the shock on my face. "Washington won't allow his men to slaughter innocent civilians. Just stay away from those Germans though."

He looks me over a little closer. "Weren't you here with your friend before?" he asks. "The black lady? Why, she hasn't left either. Said she would wait for you at her tent-"

"Thank you," I say, stunned, before I turn around and walk back towards the whores' tents. Why has Lola decided to stay when she could have run? I don't get it. She as a former slave would have all the reason to stay out of Washington's reach. It is widely known that he doesn't acknowledge freedom papers provided by the British.

When I approach the tents, she already comes running towards me. "Cat," she gasps and grasps my arms to look at me. "There you are! What- what happened? Is John-"

"He's been shot," I manage to say. "And he's badly wounded. I- I just had to see him, Lola. But he-he  sent me away. Too late though, as it seems. The camp is surrounded. I messed it all up-"

I look up at her. "But _you-_ why are you still here? Why didn't you leave?"

Lola furrows her brow in disbelief. "Why because- _Rachel-_ she came and said she had a message from you. Said you asked her to tell me, I should wait for you at the tents-"

"I said no such thing," I shake my head. "I haven't seen Rachel since the early morning-"

Lola's face takes on a grim expression."Sneaky little bitch," she spits. "She lied to me then to hinder my escape. Bet she's out there now in safety, laughing into her dirty sleeve-"

 

A deafening roar of the cannons swallows the rest of her sentence. "Let's go inside," Lola says, when the cannon is silent again, as if the thin tent's flaps could do anything to protect us from either the danger or the noise. But I follow her. There's nothing left for us to do now than await the end of the battle, for good or bad.

Thanks to Cornwallis' unconditional surrender, Yorktown has to suffer no further destruction and a few hours of anxious waiting later, the cannon noise dies down, replaced by the sound of the marching boots of our conquerers and the merry tunes of their musicians.

 

As Simcoe predicted, it doesn't take long before the flaps of our tent open to the sight of two Continental soldiers, visibly drunk with victory and several bottles of liquor to celebrate it.

"Well, hello there," the first one roars when he sees us. "Ladies," he fakes a deep bow and almost stumbles over his own feet, drunk as he is.

His comrade, no less wasted, emits an approving whistle at our sight. "It's true, the whores here are prettier than ours," he mumbles, his tongue heavy with drink. "You two been waiting for us, have you? In need for a real man for a change, I bet. Why, how about a bit of free service for your glorious liberators?"

His dull, glassy eyes dart over us and fixate on me. "I'll take the blonde," he informs his mate, takes a step towards us and grabs my arm. The blood freezes in my veins.

"Now, now, not so fast, gentlemen" Lola barges in, managing to make her voice sound both smooth and determined. "I'm afraid you're mistaken here, sirs. This- _lady_ here is not what you think- she's a decent woman, an unfortunate victim of the British in fact, who held her captive- surely you wouldn't want to add to her troubles by raping her, good men that you are-"

The soldier blinks, confused and visibly not pleased. "Nonsense," his comrade mumbles and unsheets his weapon belt. "She's in the whores' tents isn't she? One for each of us, that's how this will go-"

Lola jolts up and walks towards him. " _I_ instead," she gives him a challenging smile. "Can easily take it up with the two of you," she cooes and playfully runs her fingers across his chest. "As you say, I have been without a real man for too long and I'm so starved out I wouldn't even _dream_ of taking your money for it- just come over to my tent and I'll show you-"

"Well," the soldier seems pleased enough. "Alright, then. Let's go. I'm first."

His comrade hesitates and darts a somewhat disappointed look at me. "So, she's not a whore?" he repeats.

 

" _Of course she is._ "

The tent's flaps open again and Rachel appears between them, a malicious grin on her pinched face. "Colonel _Simcoe's_ whore to be exact. Commander of the Queen's Rangers, I'm sure you've heard of him. They both are."

"Bloody hell, " the soldier spits out and looks me over again with a disgusted frown. Then his liquor- reddened features twist into a devious grin. "Why, he won't be able to help you now," he says slowly. "From all I've heard the bastard caught a good shot and will be a goner soon."

He takes a step towards me and roughly pulls me up from my chair. "Best I take care of you now, little harlot " he rasps, his liquor heavy breath brushing my face. "Least I can do to honor the memory of our good Colonel-"

He grasps my head with both of his hands to pull me into a kiss.

The next moment, just before his lips are able to touch mine, he freezes and his bleary eyes widen in shock. His mouth gapes opens with a surprised "Oh".

We both look down at my hands around Simcoe's knife which sticks all the way to its handle in his belly just beneath his ribs. I cannot even recall to have pulled it. It has been rather an instinctive reaction to avoid his foul smelling breath than conscious intention to kill from my side.

"Whaaa-" the man tries to say something, but only a gurgling sound escapes his mouth along with a blood stream, and when I let go of the knife's handle he slumps down to my feet like a sack of potatoes.

The other soldier, just now busy with Lola, pushes her away and stares in aghast disbelief at his dead comrade with my knife in his belly. "What the fuck-" he gasps out and looks around wild-eyed. " _Murder!_ -"

Lola, quick-witted as always doesn't waste a second. She reaches for the man's weapon belt on the table, pulls out his musket and a second later he joins his dead mate on the floor, his belly shredded by a musket's bullet.

Rachel, still standing in the tent's entrance emits a terrified cry, for a moment frozen in shock, but not for long. She makes as if to run at last, but Lola is faster. I didn't even known she was able to handle a musket but she reloads it as quickly as an experienced soldier, raises it and shoots Rachel right in the face.

When the sound of the shot dies down, the tent is dead silent and the air in it heavy with the smell of blood and gunpowder.

 

Lola and I exchange a quick look. Then she walks over to Rachel on the floor and prods the slack body with her foot by way of trial.

"Dead as a fried chicken on a plate," she confirms satisfied, and seemingly unperturbed. She looks down at Rachel's destroyed face- the bullet at close range has turned the right side of it into a bloody mass- and shrugs. "Well, I never liked her much ," she comments dryly. "But I have to admit, she has never looked better."

I feel sick rise up my throat und force myself to swallow it down. "What now?" I manage to whisper. Lola chews her lower lip, then she smiles. "Same old, tragic story," she says, shrugging. "Two men, full of liquor, fighting over a woman- one pulls a knife, a shot is fired, the woman tries to intervene-and everyone ends up dead- unfortunate coincidence, really, but things like that happen all the time during a battle-"

"Lola, you're a genius," I say, flabbergasted at her presence of mind under circumstances like these. "There remains one obstacle though," I add uneasily."The camp is surrounded and we can't get out unless-"

She follows my gaze over the dead soldiers and gives me a quick, approving nod. "They won't need their uniforms any longer," she confirms. "And we better be quick. The shots have likely gone unheard in all the fuss but you never know-"

 

We free the Continentals of their uniforms and heave the three bodies onto the bed along with their muskets but I'm unwilling to leave the knife as well. It has been a gift and after all, I may still need it.

Still, the whole scenery would be all but convincing for an observant eye and Lola agrees. She covers the bodies on the bed with a blanket, pours the remaining liquor from their canteens on it and knocks over the burning candle on the table.

"Whoops," she says and clicks her tongue when the sheets catch fire which quickly spreads over the bed. "Some people just have no luck at all."

 

And so it happens that I leave the camp the same way I have entered it- a girl masked as a man in tattered Continental blue. The disguise is even more transparent than last time, but thanks to the overall fuss and confusion after the battle nobody really casts a second look at us as we make our way through the camp.

We have agreed to be members of the Virginia militia on the way to rejoin our unit, should anyone ask, but no one seems to care. The Continental army is drunk with a victory which marks in fact no less than the beginning of the end of the Britsh occupancy in the colonies. No one expects deserters on the victorious side, and no one stops us as we unobtrusively steal away from the celebrating crowd of soldiers around the campfires and head towards the main road.

 

"And from here, we'll have to go seperate ways," Lola says at last when we reach the crossroads.

It has been a ten miles walk until there with lots of time to talk.

Lola is convinced that Simcoe will make it despite his injuries and does her best to comfort me. "It takes more than a musket's bullet to kill him," she says. "He's been shot twice before and stabbed at least once, you've seen his collection of battle scars, haven't you? If a cat has nine lives as they say, this is certainly true for him as well."

She must have seen the doubts on my unhappy face. "You really care for him, do you?" she adds in a soft voice." Well, so do I. You have given yourself to him voluntarily- I know him, he would never have asked that of you- and there's a good chance we will meet him again, who can say? He knows where to find us, doesn't he? But Cat-" she pauses and gives me an intent look. "Don't wait for him too long. You've got all it takes to make a good living on your own now and you know what they say-there's plenty of fish in the sea-"

I try to see things from her perspective, I really do, but cannot quite succeed. Perhaps time will heal the wound that is still fresh and bleeding in the place where my heart has once been, but I can't imagine that just now.

"Come with me, " I try to convince her once more at the crossroads. "I could rent a nice little house out of town, no one would disturb us there. We could cultivate a garden and look after ourselves until the war is over. We would be completely independent- isn't that what you want ?"

"Yea," she replies dryly. "But I'm too young and too pretty to end my days as an embittered spinster amongst village idiots. York City, that's where the action is."

I release my breath with a disappointed sigh. "Then I will come and visit you there," I promise her.

Lola raises a sceptical brow. "You're being stupid again, Cat," she replies but her voice is almost tender. "Holy Ground accepts no visitors unless they are willing to pay and no other women than those who are willing to sell themselves. No offence, but I really hope we won't meet again there. You would never make a good whore anyway-"

"So then- this is goodbye," I say softly. "Thanks for everything. I will miss you, you know- and not just because you look absolutely stunning in that uniform."

Lola laughs lowly and pulls me into a tight embrace. "Travel safe, Cat," she says and places a soft kiss on my tear-streaked cheek. "Now, now," she scolds me mildly. "No reason to cry, dear. We're still alive. And _free_."

She pats my back reassuringly. "And if things don't work out your way, don't grieve too much. Show the world a laughing face. In the end, nothing's ever as good as you can imagine it."

 

She turns to leave, but I grab her by the sleeve. "No, Lola," I say. "This is not the end. We have to go back."

Lola turns slowly and gives me a confused look. "What are you talking about, now? We've just made it out of there, haven't we?"

"But he hasn't," I whisper when a terrible thought crosses my mind. "There was a man in the field hospital, another British officer, I only remember it now," I look at her wide-eyed. "I don't know how I know it, Lola, but I'm sure he was up to no good. John is not safe. He will follow him on board of the 'Bonetta' and try to kill him, I'm sure of it."

 

Lola returns my gaze for a long time and finally releases her breath with a sigh. "The Bonetta you say?" she replies slowly. "The sloop of war that Cornwallis has been allowed to keep according to the surrender terms? The one that is going to carry wounded British soldiers and loyalists back to York City without further examination ?"

"The very one," I confirm, nodding vigorously. "It's time to put our women's clothes back on and go back, Lola. We can't leave John to his fate, can we? He wouldn't abandon us either, were he in our place."

"You're right," Lola says with a grim smile. "Let's go back then. I'm sure the 'Bonetta' will be in need of nurses."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go! As always, thanks so much for reading and joining me on this journey so far!


	11. Epilogue: Two Angels for Johnny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, the final chapter!
> 
> In case you wonder why this one is so much better than the rest of the story, well-it wasn't written by me, but by the wonderful Reinette_de_la_Saintonge! 
> 
> And that's what happened: Originally I had not planned to send Cat and Lola on the Bonetta with Simcoe, but she liked the idea and wrote an alternative version of a possible ending for me, just for fun.  
> Reading it, I immediately knew two things: firstly, that this was far too good to remain unpublished, and secondly, that it was a much better ending than anything I could come up with.
> 
> So I asked her if I was allowed to use it and she agreed. Thanks so much again, Reinette ♥
> 
> Not written in Cat's POV for once, but instead- well. You'll see. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Simcoe was weak, almost dead already. Nobody would ever miss the man once he was dead and nobody would care how he died. He would not die a merciful death from his injuries, oh no- in fact, the ginger pest should thank him for providing a little diversion from his sickness in the few hours of life spent vegetating in his sorry state that were left to him.

Silently, with the knife he had inherited from his uncle in his hand, a blade that had, according to the latter, brought death to a number of red-headed bastards once it had come into his possession at Culloden Moor, Hewlett stepped into the room where he had earlier found out Simcoe was being kept.

He opened the door quietly, mindful not to make any noise and gave a slight jerk when the door creaked softly. Nobody must hear him.

His eyes fell on the man in the bed; he was still imposing even just lying there, a mountain of a man whose long limbs and strong build adumbrated his height when standing upright- which he would never do again, probably.

His face was covered in sweat, red and glowing from fever. Simcoe should truly be happy to see him. He’d probably kill him, even if that wasn’t his plan under the condition the Ranger would ask prettily enough. After all, it could be considered mercy to take a mad dog out of his misery.

He still wanted to do that quite badly, kill the bastard, even if his rational mind had told him not to give in to his urges.

The blade in his hands shone promisingly in the sparse light of the dimly-lit room. Soon, his nightmare would be over once and for all. But before that, Simcoe would suffer a little bit longer- it was the least he could do. For Bucephalus, for the world, for himself.

Smirking, he let his left hand glide into the pocket of his coat to feel the apple concealed beneath the red woollen fabric. Oh, he and Simcoe would have a lot of fun together, he was certain.

Hewlett’s smirk lasted exactly one second.

When he approached the cot, he, so focussed on his objective he had not paid attention to anything else (had Simcoe been right when he’d always had taunted him for not being a proper soldier?) suddenly remarked upon a second figure by the bed- a woman, petite, blonde with green eyes that sparkled otherworldly sat by his bedside, one hand stroking Simcoe’s hair in slow, comforting motions.

Initially, she didn’t break the rhythm of her occupied right hand when she noticed him but reached for the wall to her left with the other to grasp for an object. Cold sweat broke, making Hewlett fear he looked as ill as Simcoe when he realised what the object was.

The blonde had a musket. Then, she stopped stroking Simcoe’s hair, who emitted a low, probably subconscious groan that bore testimony to his discontentment in the face of this development, and aimed at him.

“It’s loaded”, she hissed lowly, probably because she did not want to wake Simcoe. “I’ve vowed to kill men like you, you know. One step further…”

She let her voice trail off, which achieved the effect she was aiming for much better than if she had simply said what fate would befall him if he would not comply. He had a big knife, she had a musket. For one moment, he thought he knew what the Jacobites, Scottish highlanders armed with blades like this one, had felt in the face of the far more superiorly armed British Army at Culloden.

Frozen, he stood like a deer in the face of danger, wide-eyed and unable to move. The blonde angel of revenge (no, not an angel- her looks were far from angelic and quite frankly, knowing Simcoe’s taste in women, he wondered where and how he had picked up that bony, flat-chested girl with curiously short blonde hair and more importantly, how drunk he must have been to take her in, for what other reason was there why she was by his side now?) stood still and rigid, soldier-like, with her Brown Bess’ pointed balefully at him. She was not one to be fooled with, Hewlett thought, one misstep, one ill-chosen word and she would shoot.

“I ah-“

But more he was not allowed to say.

In the shadows behind his back, a second figure separated from the darkness and pulled his back against her front, as he discerned from feeling two distinctively female features of anatomy pressing against his back.

“Ah-ah”, she scolded him, “no talking. We wouldn’t want to wake Lord Simcoe, would we?”

A myriad of thoughts were rushing through his head. Lord? When had that cold-blooded, murdering bastard been ennobled? And who in the right mind would think John Graves Simcoe of all officers deserving of such an honour? He could not deny that should it be true what the woman was saying, he would be somewhat bitter and jealous of his undeserving former subordinate, yet did not find any more time for exploring his personal sentiments regarding the intelligence he had just learned as a blade was held against the skin of his neck.

Trembling, he made the faintest movement with his head and tried to look down, upon which the woman intensified the pressure of the blade on his neck ever so slightly. He knew that blade. It was Simcoe’s bayonet.

“The bayonet is the finest weapon for close-quarter killing”, the other woman, black as he could tell from the hands that were holding him firmly in place, mimicked a voice he only knew too well.

“Would you like me to demonstrate?”

“Madam, please-”

She chuckled, evidently she was enjoying this. Contrary to the little blonde, Hewlett could see why Simcoe liked that one.

“Now, why does a bold major like you sneak into the room of a sick man? With a big, big knife such as yours?”

Her voice was sultry, alluring and her lips only a breath away from his ear. He could feel her curly hair brush his cheek and smell the sweetish scent of her cheap perfume. She had moved somewhat to the side so she could see his face better (evidently the devil’s handmaiden was enjoying seeing people suffer as much as her presently incapacitated master, whose cloven hooves were obscured by the thin army-issued blanket), never breaking contact between their bodies.

Her movements were skilled, precise and yet flowing at the same time- seductive and intoxicating, leaving no doubt in what lesser trade she was used to work in- the sheer thought made him blush violently.

“Say, do you like me?”

The hand she did not use to press the bayonet into his skin glided down his front and only stopped dangerously close to his midsection. To his shame, he might have quite enjoyed what she was insinuating- but not with her, evidently Simcoe’s whore, or any whore for that matter. He was a man of principles after all and not keen on catching whatever flesh-rotting disease this woman was probably carrying. He’d rather remain celibate all his life than doing it with the likes of her.

Evidently, she was mocking him. She flashed a broad grin to the small blonde who had not lowered her musket, nor had her hand quivered holding so heavy an item for so long even once.

“He likes me, Cat”, the woman, who in her own right moved like a big cat, mocked him, “perhaps we should have some fun with him before he tells us why he is here.”

“Cat”, in his mind the little housecat, nodded wordlessly, readjusting her aim from his chest to his head.

The exotic wildcat could not stifle another chuckle and commented her companion’s intentions with an “eager, are you?” before reaching without any prelude for his middle.

“If you don’t tell us”, she purred casually into his ear while letting her unoccupied left hand roam freely over his groin, fondling him, “there’s more than just your throat we could cut. Ten toes, ten fingers, two ears, a nose, and this.”

She accentuated her speech with an uncomfortable pinch before she pulled away.

“Now, to business. What do you want?”

Evidently, the little housecat’s bite was as strong as that of her wild counterpart.

“That I can tell you”, the exotic wildcat answered in his stead, “he’s a sneaky one. Wanted to kill him.”

Her eyes moved to the unmoving, disconcertingly quiet figure in the bed whose only sign of life was the sound of rattling, heavy breathing that was constantly in the background. Simcoe still looked death-pale, sweaty and more dead than alive.

As both women’s eyes fell to Simcoe, their features softened with concern.

“Do you think he’ll survive?”, the little housecat asked somewhat insecurely, suddenly sounding very young.

“Aye. I told you, he’s the strong sort.”

For the first time, the wildcat did not sound as certain as she had throughout his ordeal so far.

“Why?”, she returned to him, “why did you want to kill him?”

Only now he noticed he must have let go of his knife, which lay uselessly at his feet. Now, he was utterly defenceless.

“I did not”, Hewlett protested only to be cut off immediately. The green eyes of the little housecat were full of anger.

“Then what do you think you were doing here with a knife? We’re not stupid.”

“I wanted to scare him”, he pleaded, knowing that the women wouldn’t believe him, “not kill him, that’s what he would do, I am not like him.”

The last two words he spat out like the unwanted, bitter pips of an orange- or an apple.

“What’s that now?”, the wildcat asked, taking the apple from his pocket.

“In case I might be hungry”, he lied, knowing that yet again, they wouldn’t believe him.

“Hungry”, the housecat echoed, derisively raised an eyebrow and once again readjusted her aim.

Hewlett couldn’t help but feel like a canary trapped in a room with two angry cats while the mistress was not at home.

The wildcat examined the apple, sniffed it and declared it not poisoned.

“Catch it”, she called out to the little housecat who lowered her musket for the first time in order to have one hand free for catching the fruit, which she did with effortless grace, just like the animal she had obviously been named after. She put the apple down on the nightstand and wasted no time aiming at him again.

“I suggest you leave now”, the wildcat said in a dangerously sweet tone, “before we think on it again. If you ever try to touch him again- well, you know now we’re here to accompany him to New York. Otherwise-“

The blade withdrew from his neck and almost instantly, his lungs filled with air he hadn’t dared to breathe before, frozen solid with fear.

“I don’t know what he did to you”, the housecat added quietly to the words of her sister-in-arms, “but he’s weak. He won’t harm you now.”

“What a brave man”, the wildcat scorned him, “when I –fought – with him, he was at his full strength.”

“And men say women are not supposed to be soldiers”, the housecat added darkly as if this circumstance, which should be only natural to the weaker sex, offended her personally.

“Run along. If I ever see you again- and oh-“ the wildcat bent down and quickly retrieved the Culloden Knife, “I’ll keep that.”

Before he could even protest or do anything, she had let it glide through her fingers with so much skill he supposed she had not wielded a knife in this fashion for the first time and made it disappear in her girdle, wearing it like a she-pirate.

The last that he saw was the housecat’s musket barrel following him to the door before he broke into a swift jog until he was on deck, where he could finally breathe freely.

 

***

 

“It was a good idea of you to be at arms at all times”, Cat told Lola. It was later in the evening now and he had still not woken up, which worried them both.

“Well, you had the feeling John might still be in danger.” Lola replied. "Obviously, this proved to be true."

“You saved him”, Cat said simply.

“No. You did. Without the musket, he might have put up a fight- blade against blade, that’s a fair fight, but you kept him in check.”

“Thank you, Lola. But that hardly matters now.”

Both of them looked down at the man in the bed. While Cat sat a little stiffly on a chair she had pulled close as she had seen her father do when he had attended very ill patients, Lola, perhaps less inhibited because she had known him so long (and so intimately) sat on his other side at the edge of the bed, stroking his hand with a helpless clumsiness that did not quite fit the skilled movements of her body she employed to her advantage when at work.

“Hm-“

His groan, so comparatively strong and sudden after two days in which he hadn’t even been awake, sounded like the sweetest music to their ears and both of them quickly bent over him as his iridescently blue eyes opened and he, his glance as unsteady and unfocussed as a new-born’s, tried to make out their faces.

“You are here”, he rasped. Talking obviously posed a challenge to him and yet he went on: “Hewlett- I could hear him- you granted him mercy- he fled-“

“Hush, it was all a bad dream”, Cat assured him and stroked his hair again, swiping the apple from the nightstand with her sleeve and exchanging a glance with Lola who added quickly and affirmatively, “just a bad dream.”

Weak and feverish, he appeared to be contented with their explanation and drifted back into another deep, long episode of sleep, surrendering his head to Cat’s caressing fingers and weakly pressed Lola’s hand, certain now his nightmare would not come to haunt him again.


End file.
